


The Price She Paid

by Huntress77



Series: The Price She Paid [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Sansa, Fix-It, Gen, Revenge, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4808756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huntress77/pseuds/Huntress77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternative version of how Ramsay Bolton and Sansa Stark's wedding night could have gone, and the period after. Non-romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Price She Paid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With shocking speed, the ceremony was over. Sansa, on the other hand, found her feet moving progressively slower as she approached the bridal chamber. Maybe he would be gentler than expected. Maybe he would show mercy and she wouldn't have to do what she was planning to do.
> 
> Even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it was foolish. That was a vestige of the old Sansa, the little girl who believed in fairy tales. If she was to survive her new world, the old Sansa had to die. Still, her feet didn't move any faster. Ramsay mocked her reluctance in a way that could be mistaken for playful, if you weren't paying attention.

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=2dje9zs)

  


The moment Sansa Stark saw what was left of Theon Greyjoy huddled in a dog kennel, all of her plans exploded like wildfire. The first, most overwhelming shock had been that of seeing a man she’d thought dead for years, the man who murdered her brothers and displayed their carcasses in a deranged bid for power over the North. Racing in on its heels was the sudden knowledge of what must have happened to Theon. She had thought Joffrey was the worst the world had to offer. What was surviving a minor traitor compared to that? She should’ve known Starks didn’t get that lucky.  
  
He lifted his eyes to hers. What Sansa saw there was, in retrospect, what had really made her turn and run. The kennel wench, Myranda, had disappeared, leaving no doubt that this reaction was exactly what she had intended. Sansa didn’t care. She hadn’t stopped running until she’d reached her bed, where she could muffle her sobs.  
  
************************************************  
  
She thought of that now, as he led her through the godswood. Even cleaned and finely dressed, even seen only from behind, he was unmistakably the creature she had already come to think of as “Reek”. All traces of red had been banished from her eyes by the time of their second meeting. Then, as now, she’d known she couldn’t let them see her weakness. She stared over Reek's shoulder as the wedding lights swam into view, struggling not to blink. It was a trick learned at King's Landing.  
  
The heavy brocade of her bridal gown swept the snow as she passed over it, wiping away her footprints. Hopefully it wasn't an omen. The funereal silence that greeted her as she approached the weirwood hopefully wasn't either. She was still glad she'd skipped dinner when she spotted her groom, the scarlet leaves of the tree reaching toward his head.  
  
**************************************************  
  
Ramsay Bolton had seemed unusually pleased with himself at luncheon, the day she learned of Theon's continued existence. That should have been a warning. Sansa had been reserved but calm, exchanging polite words with Ramsay's stepmother. Then the past had stepped out of the shadows. Theon... Reek. As Ramsay "reunited" them, Sansa had fixed her eyes on her plate and tried to figure out how he knew. Had Myranda told him? Had Theon? Had a Bolton spy seen her flee the kennel? They were all equally possible. Her head spun.  
  
Still, it hadn't been until he'd suggested Reek give her away at their wedding- in place of her murdered brothers- that the full realization of what she'd gotten herself into had hit. It wasn't that she'd expected any son of Roose Bolton to be _nice_ , of course. He'd seemed chivalrous enough, though, handsome, even taken with her. So as planned, she had teased, flattered, shown strategic flashes of leg. As planned, she had spoken with several familiar Winterfell faces, showing them the same love and compassion she'd seen her father show them in her childhood. And here she was engaged to another monster.  
  
Sansa had realized everyone was watching her, waiting for her reaction. What could she possibly say? What would Littlefinger tell her to do?  
  
"That sounds splendid."  
  
*******************************************  
  
She gave Ramsay a mirror-practiced adoring smile as he stepped forward to meet her. The time to deal with Littlefinger seemed so far in the future, she couldn't even picture it. A flush came to already frost-pinched cheeks. Royal summons or no, he _had_ to have known he was leaving her alone in a nest of vipers. There was no doubt of that. What was truly unforgivable, though, was the false sense of security he'd left her with. "He's already fallen for you," was all she could hear as the wedding vows droned.  
  
With shocking speed, the ceremony was over. Sansa, on the other hand, found her feet moving progressively slower as she approached the bridal chamber. Maybe he would be gentler than expected. Maybe he would show mercy and she wouldn't have to do what she was planning to do.  
  
Even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it was foolish. That was a vestige of the old Sansa, the little girl who believed in fairy tales. If she was to survive her new world, the old Sansa had to die. Still, her feet didn't move any faster. Ramsay mocked her reluctance in a way that could be mistaken for playful, if you weren't paying attention.  
  
She hesitated before crossing the threshold of what was intended to be another in a series of prisons. There had never been any real possibility of turning back, but this step felt symbolic. She lifted her chin and took it.  
  
As her new husband gently touched her cheek and brushed her lips with a kiss, the wild hope that the course of action she had been backed into might be unnecessary resurged, stronger than ever. She might not _like_ being married to the son of a man who had betrayed the entire North, but she could live with it, if only, if only... And then she heard the words. "Take your clothes off."  
  
Sansa's throat was suddenly as dry as a Dothraki's boots. She looked at Reek and he turned to leave. "Oh, no," Ramsay Bolton imperiously commanded. "You stay here, Reek. You watch."  
There it was. She had suspected he would try to hurt her in this way, had counted on it, even. Yet she couldn't help it; she swallowed. His eyes flicked to the bob of her throat and lit up.  
  
Sansa gave him what she desperately hoped was a seductive smile. "You're right, of course. We should have a witness. You first."  
  
Ramsay frowned. "What did you say, darling?"  
  
"You're not ashamed to show your bride what she has to look forward to, are you?"  
  
Now he was visibly agitated. He grabbed her wrists, hard enough to force a wince from her, and pulled her close. "Do I need to ask a second time? I hate asking a second time."  
  
Her face became the impassive mask that she'd had too many occasions to perfect. "No, my lord."  
  
And the most awful smile she had ever seen spread slowly across his face. For the first time, he was showing her his fully unmasked self. She turned her back on him, taking the moment to steel her resolve as she fumbled with the laces at her wrists. He was out of last chances.  
  
Ramsay was impatient, though. He tore open her dress, leaving red welts across her back. Sansa allowed him to bend her stiffly over the bed. As he took his time with her skirts, one hand snaked forward and retrieved a knife from the space between the bed and the wall. She hugged it to her chest. Her eyes glittered coldly as she stared across the room at a candle, envisioning the faces of her father, her mother, her sister, her brothers in the flame. Now, more clearly than ever before, she knew that she was their last hope for justice.  
  
The clatter of a belt buckle dissolved into the rustle of trousers dropping. One last moment of hesitation, then Sansa spun and plunged the knife as deep into his throat as it would go. He hardly reacted at first. They were just frozen in their poses, staring at each other. Then she twisted the knife and pulled it out, instantly drenching the front of her wedding gown. Ramsay's mouth stretched into a shocked O.  
  
She pushed past him and lunged at Reek, smearing blood on his hands. There was only time to register horrified eyes, but when she turned, Ramsay was already slumped against the bed. One hand was clutched to his throat, the other groped at his waist- only the sword wasn't there. It had been discarded in preparation for his wedding night rape.  
  
Sansa kicked it away, then dropped the knife and pried his hand away from his throat. She placed her palms flat over the wound, as if trying to staunch the bleeding. His face registered confusion, but it was Reek's eyes she was meeting. "HELP!" she screamed.  
  
**********************************************  
  
Sansa sat in the familiar antechamber to the Great Hall, hands clenched tightly in her lap to keep them from shaking. She stared down at the reddish-brown sediment beneath her fingernails. Someone had given her a cloth to clean her hands with, but her dress and fingernails were still stained with the rust color of dried blood. If someone had told her before this whole nightmare started that she would become knowledgeable about what dried blood looks like, she would have thought they were insane.  
  
At long last, she was called in to tell her story to Lord and Lady Bolton. _Reek had grown increasingly agitated on the way back to the bridal chamber. As the marriage was being consummated, he had pulled out a knife and stabbed Ramsay. She'd tried to protect him but Reek had attacked her and torn her dress._ At this point, she turned to show them the scratches and ragged fabric. Lady Bolton gasped. _The knife had somehow ended up on the floor during their struggle, and without a weapon, he had suddenly seemed to realize what he'd done. He shrank back into himself. Sansa, naturally, had tried to save her lord in the only way she could think of, but it was in vain. He was dead._  
  
By the time her tale of woe reached its end, her cheeks were soaked with the tears she spent most of her time holding in. Cries of "Not me! Not me!" preceded the forced entrance of Reek into the Great Hall. She clamped her hand over her mouth and pointed a shaking finger at him. They believed her, of course. Why wouldn't they? He had every reason in the world to want to kill his master. Sansa hid her elation behind a tumble of red hair as Roose Bolton personally ran him through.  
  
"I can't," she gasped and fled to the antechamber, where she donned an old, ragged cloak that, at a glance, made her look like a servant. It also served to cover the blood-stained dress. With a candle in one hand and a flint in the other, she set out for the Broken Tower. Her "disguise" wouldn't fool the keep's guards up close, but Winterfell was her home. She knew there were other ways in and out.  
  
Slipping through the shadows of the narrow streets, she was once again overwhelmed by the feeling she'd had when she first rode through the gates of the Bolton-controlled city. Winterfell's scars were terrible, but underneath were the same places that still warmed her dreams. It hurt to have to leave again. She held the red-smeared candle up to the light of a torch and allowed herself the tiniest of triumphant smiles. Whether he'd intended to or not, it seemed Littlefinger had taught her an important lesson after all. Always have a backup plan.  
  
From the top of the tower, Sansa Stark could see almost all of the city that should be hers by birth. She lit the candle and began to scan its streets. Orange lights streaked to and fro, more activity than she'd ever seen here before. It wouldn't be long before all of Winterfell knew what had happened. There was grim satisfaction in imagining Myranda hearing the news. She leaned forward as she noticed something happening by the service gate. They were opening it. There was a glitter of metal, but it was the shock of blond hair that identified the person who...  
  
Her jaw dropped. It was unmistakably Brienne of Tarth, her mother's old sworn sword, who was now bashing and slashing her way toward the Broken Tower. She couldn't help laughing at the irony. As she ran down the steps to meet her new protector, a name sprang into her mind: Lady Stoneheart.  
  



	2. Blooded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark has been blooded. What next?

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=2dje9zs)

  


Sansa Stark rode behind Podrick Payne, hands resting lightly on his shoulders. Between Brienne's plate armor and the hefty warrioress herself, she figured Brienne's horse already had enough to deal with. Besides, this made it easier for her and Pod to flee if it should become neccesary for the Maid of Tarth to defend them. So far it hadn't. They'd been lucky.  
  
She reflected on the unaccustomed feeling of good fortune. It would be easy to get used to it. Also dangerous. She still had her blood-stained bridal gown to remind her of that.  Pod had mended and washed it for her as best he could, but like her less visible stains, these would never entirely go away.  
  
She remembered sitting by a fire, wrapped in furs, watching him scrub the white brocade against the rocks in what she could barely even call a stream. Brienne had been atop a nearby hillock, ever vigilant of the safety of her new charge. It had seemed like overprotectiveness to Sansa, until she'd recalled how many failures this woman had on her conscience.  Then Pod had looked up, pushed his sleeves above his elbows and grinned at her. She wished she could trust his simple loyalty.  
  
Riding behind him now, her cloak and his body were enough to hide the state of the dress. She still felt exposed, out here on the open ridgeline. Even the wind seemed to be trying to tear away her disguise. Apparently, the advantages of high ground outweighed the risks. She didn't know anything about that. What she did know was that she didn't  feel safer.  
  
As they reached the crest, Brienne pulled up slightly. Podrick moved his horse alongside hers and asked, "What's wrong?"  
  
He and Sansa both saw what was wrong before she could answer. Four men on horseback were coming up the other side of the ridge, headed in their direction. "Should we turn back?" Sansa queried.  
  
"No. We don't know they're looking for you. Turning back now would just arouse suspicion. Keep your eyes straight ahead and don't look nervous. You'll be fine."  
  
_Easy for you to say_ , she thought. In agonizingly torpid fashion, the distance between the two parties shrank. Sansa did as she was told and kept her gaze level over Podrick's shoulder, but she could see the man in the lead was looking at her. A windblown wisp of hair blocked her vision. As she tucked it back, Littlefinger's unwelcome voice popped into her head: _A memorable shade_.  All she could do was hold steady.  
  
Brienne nodded curtly at the men as they passed and then they were to the rear. Every muscle in Sansa's body melted in relief.  Her heart rate was just starting to slow when the drumming of  hooves behind her drove it back up instantly. She kicked the horse's sides and it jumped to a startled canter. _Where did that come from?_ Pod yanked on the right rein, pulling the horse around in two tight circles. The first time around, she caught a flash of Brienne crossing swords with one of the men. The second time, his sword was flying out of his hand and cutting down the man next to him.  
  
Pod finally got the horse under control and pointed away from the melee. As it shot off, Sansa looked over her shoulder. Her hood blew back and released her hair to stream in front of her face, but she could see with shocking clarity as a third man's arm came off. She stared, equally repelled and fascinated, as Brienne sideswiped the sole survivor's horse with her own, knocking him to the ground. A quick tap on the shoulder and Podrick brought them to a halt.  
  
Brienne was kneeling on the brigand's chest, holding her sword to his throat. "How much is the bounty on Sansa Stark? How far has it travelled???"  
  
His mouth opened, but it took a moment for words to come out. "Wha- who?" he stammered.  
She shook him. "Sansa Stark! The bounty!" Then, as she took in his expression, "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"  
  
"Look, we just thought you'd be easy pickin's. Two women an'  a boy. Whatever you're in, it's nothin' to do wit me."  
  
"Shit," said Brienne.  
  
*********************************************  
  
Podrick stepped around the campfire and rested a hand on Brienne's back. "They attacked _us_ ," he soothed her. "What do you think they were going to do to us? You had every right to kill that man."  
  
"He was helpless."  
  
"He was a cutthroat. Prob'ly a raper too."  
  
Sansa watched them as she undid the braid she had confined her hair to after the afternoon's close call. It had gained her a horse of her own, courtesy of their assailants, but also a fresh set of worries. Not since King's Landing had she felt so useless. Her sworn sword stared glumly into the fire, chin resting on balled-up hands, but she would occasionally glance at the pile of saddlebags on the edge of the shifting light. A thought that had been scratching at the back of Sansa's mind suddenly burst free. "That's not all that's wrong, is it?" she asked.  
  
Brienne looked at her, surprised. "As a matter of fact, we're almost out of food. We've been stretching our supply with fish and game, but I don't think we can replace it. Especially when our only fighter is also our only hunter." She directed a pointed look at Podrick, who pretended not to notice.  
  
"Do you have coin to buy more?"  
  
"Plenty. That's not the problem."  
  
Sansa's expression was grave. "I'm the problem. You don't want to let anyone see me."  
  
"There are so many powerful people looking for you. The Lannisters, the Boltons, maybe even the Vale. It's far too dangerous."  
  
"You could go by yourself."  
  
Brienne's jaw set. "I won't leave you unprotected."  
  
"Then send Pod." His head swiveled toward her in alarm. "No one still alive has seen him with me, have they?"  
  
One fist uncurled into a forefinger that thoughtfully stroked Brienne's chin. "Fair point. There's some risk to being alone in any town, but I don't see that we have much choice."  
  
A shorthand look of agreement passed between Pod and his master. As he began to help her remove her armor in preparation for sleep, it was Sansa's turn to gaze into the fire, wondering how best to present the plan that had been germinating  for the past few days. While it had only just flowered during their conversation, she felt it was important to have the right words prepared.  
  
Finally, she spoke. "We're going to have this problem again, you know. And again. What are we going to do when we run out of coin?"  
  
Brienne didn't even look up. "I can't think about that now."  
  
"I _have_ been thinking about it. Besides, I can't run forever. You said it yourself. Too many powerful people are vying for my head."  
  
"Maybe I could convince my father to take you in."  
  
"Are you truly certain no one there would sell me to my enemies? Answer honestly." She was met with silence. "What we need is to be different people."  
  
At last, she had their undivided attention. Podrick even let a lace fall  from his hand. Sansa forged ahead. "When Pod goes for supplies, he can buy gowns too." She glanced down at her stained and dirty dress. "I need new clothes anyway. A lady's gowns, and something to change the color of my hair. If anyone asks, he can say they're for his sister. We'll travel as an exiled Qartheen woman and her guard."  
  
Her companions absorbed this information. She'd had more than enough experience with dismissal to know this was a good sign. It meant they were taking her seriously. "Why a lady?" asked Podrick. "Wouldn't it be better for you to blend in?"  
  
The corner of Brienne's mouth tugged grudgingly upward. "No matter how much she changes her appearance, her bearing and speech will still mark her as a lady." She shook her head. "I don't know, little one. It sounds risky."  
  
"Little one?" Sansa stood, emphasizing the fact that she was almost as tall as Brienne. "And it's not like you could pass for lowborn any better  than I could. Not with _that_ armor."  
  
"Hm, yes. I'm starting to regret accepting it. Look, my lady, all I'm saying is that you'd have to become someone with a completely different past. Every day. How much do you really know about Qarth?"  
  
It was the first time either of them had ever heard her laugh. "To most people, Qarth might as well be on the sun. I probably know as much about it as anyone in this part of Westeros. And there's almost no chance of meeting someone who's ever been there."  
  
"It sounds like you've given this a lot of thought," Brienne mused. "A lot." Sansa shrugged and just like that, it was done.  
  
She wound a lock of hair around her finger and stretched it out, examining it against the firelight. It was an idle habit, but now she said, "I think I'd like to be a blonde this time."  
  
****************************  
  
As she laid out her bedroll, she felt a slight pang of guilt for not telling Brienne and Pod her full intentions. Only slight, however. Even the best-intentioned people had let her down too many times. At any rate, she wasn't sure what she could tell them. The longterm contours of her plan were shrouded in a mist she had yet to figure out how to blow away. Telling herself that helped.  
  
"I know it's been a long time, " Pod said softly, "but you're different from how I remember you."  
Sansa Stark didn't answer, but as she laid down with her back to the fire and stared into the blackness, she smiled.  
  



	3. Just Before Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her embroidery had been a stabilizing force for her, giving her a way to pass the time and occupying her hands even as her mind worked. She wished she could do something more useful, but her septa would have been pleased to know that _something_ she'd taught her had been a benefit. Now, though, she set it aside and occupied her hand with a wine goblet instead. 
> 
> Brienne said, "You've been planning this for weeks." It wasn't a question, but it wasn't an accusation either.

 

Sansa Stark contentedly ate her blood pudding as her companions looked on in disgust. Her hair was now a color not dissimilar to Cersei Lannister's, but shoulder length and curled. The dark green of her gown brought out the blue of her eyes, with the only ostentatious touch a representation of the gates of Qarth she had embroidered on the back in gold thread. The most striking change, though, was in her bearing.  She sat tall and looked people in the eye as she engaged them. She was wearing the role of power and privilege.  
  
"She's actually _eating_ it," Podrick stage whispered to Brienne. The warrioress snickered.  
  
"It's good," asserted Sansa.  
  
"You do know you can order anything you want, don't you?" Brienne asked.  
  
"I don't think this place serves lemon cakes. Or how about eel pie? No? Then this is as good as it gets."  
  
Brienne put up her hands in surrender. "All right. I get it. The finest shithole in the village is still a shithole, if you'll excuse my language, my lady. And speaking of, nature calls."  
  
Sansa wrinkled her nose and waved her out of the tavern. Moments after she disappeared, a blonde woman wearing trousers slid into the vacated seat. "I thought that ogress would never leave. She must have a steel bladder."  
  
"Excuse me?" asked Podrick.  
  
"That's right, I haven't introduced myself. Yara Greyjoy of the Iron Islands. Pleased to finally meet you, Lady Stark."  
  
Sansa sat up straighter and glanced at Pod, who looked back nervously. "I'm sorry, you've mistaken me for someone else. My name-"  
  
"I don't know what you're calling yourself these days, but there's no mistake. SANSA. STARK."  
  
"All right! Keep your voice down." She looked around to make sure no one had noticed. "I heard what happened. You refused to support your brother when he took Winterfell. My quarrel is not with you."  
  
"Nor mine with you. My brother was dead long before you got to him. That accursed clan saw to that. Truth be told, you probably did him the biggest favor anyone ever has."  
  
"What does that mean? Roose Bolton killed Re- Theon, not me."  
  
Yara's smile was wistful. "I saw Theon, after what they did to him. After they turned him into Reek." The last word was drawn out disdainfully. "Believe me when I say I know this- that creature could never have lifted a hand against its master. I'm not the only one who thinks so, either. You've become quite the hero in your hometown. There's even a song about you. You know how many men _I've_ killed without ever getting a song?"  
  
Something unidentifiable, something she'd never felt before, bubbled up in Sansa's breast. Yara propped her feet up on a chair and helped herself to Brienne's ale. "Not bad for a shithole."  
  
"What do you want from me?"  
  
"What I want is simple. I want an alliance." Sansa's lips parted in shock as she and Pod exchanged another glance. "My father is dead. It doesn't matter how. What matters is that I'm now leader of the Iron Islands."  
  
"But..."  
  
"But I'm a woman?" Yara rolled her eyes. "With everyone so dutifully reminding me, how could I forget? Regardless, I am my house's only heir. Besides, it was my father's wish. Most of the men I've fought with share that wish, but the people... Well, you can't lead without the confidence of your people." She thrust the mug in Sansa's direction. "That's why I tracked you down, princess."  
  
Sansa didn't chance looking at the inn door, but she kept it in the corner of her eye. If only she could keep the woman talking until Brienne returned. She picked up her fork and took a leisurely bite of pudding. "How did you find me? I took great care to cover my tracks."  
  
"You're full of questions, aren't you? I guess I would be too. You were already gone when I reached Winterfell, but not long. The snow hadn't covered your tracks yet. That only gave me a general direction, though. I'd almost given up when I started hearing about a Qartheen woman in exile. A Qartheen woman who's guard included a large, forbidding female. Sad to say, the Iron Islands aren't the only place where women in armor are rare."  
  
Her only answer was a slight lowering of the eyes and a flutter of lash."Oh," Yara continued, "I have something for you." She bent over and rummaged around near the floor. Sansa's hand inched closer to the knife beside her plate. She had a feeling this woman wouldn't die easily, but she well knew the power of surprise. At the least, she might be able to create an opening for Pod to strike. Yara popped back up with a silver medallion in hand. "It was your brother's," she explained as she slid it across the table. "Robb's."  
  
Sansa's hand now crept toward this new focus and traced the relief of a dire wolf on the face. As it began to shake, she snatched up the medallion and gripped it tightly to still herself, looking up with overbright eyes. "His lord's seal. How do you have it?"  
  
"It was presented by Theon to my father, as a token of your brother's good faith. I'd say it belongs to you now."  
  
"A token of good faith once more?"  
  
The other woman locked her gaze. "It could be."  
  
She calmly turned to look as Brienne reentered, adjusting her belt. Yara turned too, then frowned. "Just don't let her have my head until you've heard me out. Deal?"  
  
Brienne was frozen in place. Sansa gestured her over and she came warily, settling in close by her ward's side. The proud carriage was back as that ward turned the seal over and over in her hands, as if the more of it she could absorb through touch, the more real it would become. "Brienne, Yara Greyjoy. Lady Greyjoy has made a most interesting proposal. I'd like to hear what you both think of it."  
  
Podrick's eyes darted sideways. It always startled him, still, to hear that his opinion was wanted. Brienne's eyes, on the other hand, narrowed suspiciously.  
  
"I don't like this. At all. How did she even find you?"  
  
"Here's a hint," smirked Yara. "You're going to have to start passing as a man. At least in public."  
  
"I'll explain later," Podrick murmured.  
  
Sansa still hadn't looked up from the seal. "Tell us why we should trust a Greyjoy."  
  
Yara's expression abruptly turned serious. She put her feet back on the floor, leaned forward and looked intently into Sansa's face. "Because you have no one else to go to. And frankly, I'm not spoiled for choice either." She shrugged. "It's been a long time since the ironborn were respected. It's been a long time since we could do what we're bred to do. If I could change that, people might even think it's worth having a Woman Lord."  
  
Her supplication finally earned her a look. "And why do you think I can help you with that?"  
  
"You're the last of the Starks, princess!" She lifted her hands. "All right, I won't say it again." A quick glance reassured everyone that the cloaking hubbub of the inn had protected them. "You still have a lot of supporters in the North, support you can use with the right aid, and I think you understand that better than you pretend."  
  
Sansa's voice was calm, level, almost casual. "The last time my family trusted an ironborn, we lost Winterfell. The last time my family trusted someone who claimed to be an ally, my mother and brother lost their lives. For all I know, you could be planning to lead me into an ambush, collect the bounty."  
  
"Bounty? What are you talking about?"  
  
"The bounty on _me_."  
  
"There's no bounty on you."  
  
This got a reaction. "How can that be?" demanded Sansa, voice rising in pitch.  
  
"How should I know? Maybe Roose Bolton would rather not believe that his golden boy was killed by a woman. You really didn't know?" She reached for Brienne's mug again, only to find it snatched out from under her fingers.  
  
Brienne slammed the mug down on her side of the table and interjected, "If this is true, it does change things significantly."  
  
Sansa looked sideways at Brienne, whose eyes were still fixed hawkishly on Yara. It was true that she'd failed to trust her when she should have. She didn't want to make the same mistake twice. That didn't mean Yara Greyjoy was also trustworthy, though. How had she known she could trust her current companions?  
  
A thought began to spread its tentacles through her mind. Before she even knew what she was going to say, the words were out. "Are you alone? I mean, did you bring any soldiers with you?"  
Yara was wary. "I have some men not far from town. Didn't want to spook you."  
  
"Would you be willing to do something to prove your good faith?"  
  
*****************  
  
Sansa reclined on a bench, embroidering the gates of Qarth onto a gown, while Brienne hovered by the window. Nearly a week had passed since their meeting with Yara Greyjoy, and tonight was the night they would know if it had borne fruit. The horses were saddled, ready for a quick escape if need be. That had been Brienne's idea. Sansa hadn't argued, though. _Always have a backup plan._  
  
Her embroidery had been a stabilizing force for her, giving her a way to pass the time and occupying her hands even as her mind worked. She wished she could do something more useful, but her septa would have been pleased to know that _something_ she'd taught her had been a benefit. Now, though, she set it aside and occupied her hand with a wine goblet instead.  
  
Brienne said, "You've been planning this for weeks." It wasn't a question, but it wasn't an accusation either.  
  
"Not this exactly," Sansa replied honestly. "But if Lady Greyjoy hadn't found me, I would have found someone else. An old Stark bannerman. Sellswords. Something."  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
"Would you have let me do it if I had?"  
  
Brienne glanced sidelong at her. "Of course not. Moving from town to town asking questions about troops, meeting with moneyed men. It's a dangerous game you're playing."  
  
"I've been playing a dangerous game since the day I left for King's Landing. I just didn't know the rules. Knowledge is power." She lifted her goblet. "At least if you have a good bodyguard."  
  
Out of long habit, the warrior woman let a hand rest on her sword hilt. "Is that the real reason you suggested this whole Qartheen masquerade?"

  
"Only part of it. I meant it when I said I couldn't run forever." She looks up a bit guiltily. "I just didn't mention that I didn't plan to hide forever either. It's not really a lie, is it?"  
  
Brienne lifted her chin. "It's not my place to know your business, my lady. But if I'm going to keep you safe, there are things I must know."  
  
"Yes. About that. I've been thinking."  
  
"Here we go," said Podrick from his seat by the door. He paused in his knife sharpening task and sat back.  
  
Sansa plunked down her wine and strode over to him. For a moment, he looked like he thought she might hit him. That changed to confusion as she plucked the knife from his hand.  
  
"Don't you think I'd be safer if I knew how to use this?"  
  
"What? You want me to teach you how to _fight_?"  
  
"No." Her slight smile was sad. "That was always Arya's talent, not mine. What I want you to do is teach me how to escape. To not have to depend on someone else for _everything_. Yara Greyjoy provided a timely reminder of something I should have learned from my parents: even your most trusted protectors can't protect you always."  
  
Her own most trusted protector leveled an appraising look that hadn't been seen on that face since Sansa had outlined her Qartheen proposal. She suspected Brienne carried a weakness for the independent-minded, particularly if they were women. As the seconds rolled past, Sansa maintained steady eye contact, refusing to back down.  
  
The older woman shifted her weight to the other leg and drew in a cautious breath. "It's a good choice of weapon for your purposes," she admitted. "Small, light, easily concealed, but no less deadly for it when used well."  
  
"And it was the first weapon I ever wielded." Sansa smirked more with her eyes than her mouth. "Seems fitting."  
  
"I suppose that proves you can kill, if need be. It didn't help Renly, but..." Lips pursed. "I can't turn you into a knife fighter overnight..."  
  
"I don't expect you to turn me into one at all."  
  
"...but if your enemy is untrained or surprised or just doesn't know you're armed..."  
  
"Can I assume that means yes?"  
  
"You can."  
  
Pod quietly, matter of factly reached up and reclaimed his knife.  
  
*****************  
  
In the stillness just before dawn, an echoing rhythm swelled. Brienne rubbed bleary eyes and cocked her head. Beyond any doubt, it was the rhythm of a galloping horse. She turned to the bench on which Sansa had fallen asleep, gown and spool tucked to her chest, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "She's here."  
  
They roused Podrick to escort Yara to the room, giving him an excuse to watch the blind side of the inn for an approaching ambush. When a wind-chafed face appeared in the door without incident, Sansa stepped forward. "Lady-"  
  
Yara had no patience for civilized pleasantries. "It's done." She reached into a rawhide bag and, with a self-satisfied air, produced a severed hand. Even in the pale yellow flashes of low-burning candle, the Bolton brand on the back of it stood out. So did the regiment commander's badge attached to it, the brown, desiccated flesh speared by its pin. Sansa took two steps back and swallowed a shuddering breath.  
  
"You said you wanted proof," snapped Yara impatiently.  
  
Sansa said thickly, "And I have it. You can put that away now." She couldn't help averting her eyes as the grotesque appendage disappeared into the bag. "All of them?"  
  
"No, not all. But enough to send them running with their tails between their legs.  Are you satisfied? Do we have a deal?"  
  
"We have a deal."  
  
Her fingers curled as her new ally stamped dried mud off her boots and pulled the back of her hand across her mouth. "I understand why it would be Bolton men," the far slighter yet more intimidating woman broached. "But why that encampment? It's not even the closest."  
  
"You could say it was in my way."  
  
"I could, huh? In the way of what?"  
  
Another mirthless smile that never reaches the lips. _Knowledge is power. Secret knowledge especially._ "A very old family friend."


	4. Another One Bites the Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four human figures stood in a row, punctuated by four equine ones. The equines drank from the stream that trickled sluggishly by in front of them. Of the humans, two were dressed in armor, one in an incongruously expensive gown, the fourth in a maidservant's attire. Tense silence reigned, broken occasionally by a boisterous slurp from one of the horses.
> 
> At last, Brienne of Tarth craned over her horse's neck to get in the eyeline of Sansa Stark and said, "I expect this is your last chance to change your mind. You can still decide it's not worth it."

 

 

Four human figures stood in a row, punctuated by four equine ones. The equines drank from the stream that trickled sluggishly by in front of them. Of the humans, two were dressed in armor, one in an incongruously expensive gown, the fourth in a maidservant's attire. Tense silence reigned, broken occasionally by a boisterous slurp from one of the horses.  
  
At last, Brienne of Tarth craned over her horse's neck to get in the eyeline of Sansa Stark and said, "I expect this is your last chance to change your mind. You can still decide it's not worth it."  
  
_Their faces had been lit only by a luminous northern moon, the night she had revealed her planned next move. In that random lousy room in a random blighted village, Pod had looked into her eyes and asked her how she thought it would feel._  
  
_Sansa had looked back at him, pupils dilated by moonlight and wine swallowing the irises. "When Joffrey died, I  would have told you it was the most horrifying thing I'd ever seen. But it would have been a lie. The truth is, I liked watching him die. Ramsay and Theon too."_  
  
_Pod had wet his lips._  
  
_"I bet that shocks you. It shocked me too, for a long time.  But now I understand that what I felt was only natural. I have no more need to fear my emotions."_  
  
"It's worth it," replied Sansa, and turned back to the slow rivulets. Brienne kept eyes on her for a long breath before relaxing her spine.  
  
"Lady Greyjoy. Did anyone see you send the raven?"  
  
The queried Lady opted to duck under her horse's head to answer and Sansa stooped to meet her gaze.  
  
"I told you to call me Yara. I'm not one for airs. And I sent _three_ ravens. I'm not here to take chances. Oh, and the messages are coded, so they'll be useless to anybody who intercepts one."  
  
"They'll send only a hundred men at a time?"  
  
"Yes, yes, on the pretense of raiding coastal villages. Even the soldiers won't know where they're really going until they've set sail. You worry too much."  
  
"No such thing," Sansa whispered.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing. You should leave for the bridge now. It's nearly midday sun."  
  
As Sansa squeezed past her own horse to take the reins of Yara's, Brienne made one last effort at dissuasion. "I certainly never thought I'd live long enough to see someone willingly trust a Greyjoy."  
  
Yara had to haul herself halfway into her saddle to find a good vantage point from which to respond. "We keep our promises."  
  
"Huh. Tell that to Robb Stark."  
  
"My brother wasn't a real Greyjoy. He was raised by-" She broke off, glanced down. "Our ways were never that important to him. His actions were a blight on the honor of the entire Iron Islands. You know that feeling, right?"  
  
Brienne bridled indignantly. "What do you know of honor? Or right??"  
  
Podrick's head popped up inside the strait of broad backs and saddle leather. "Calm down. Had plenty of chances to doublecross us already. And she was right about there being no bounty on Lady Sansa's head."  
  
Added the subject of their conversation, "Lady Sansa is very grateful, and she would also like to finish before it's too dark to make our way through the forest." A soft jiggle of reins punctuated the sentence.  
  
The manque maidservant set off for the main road, drawing a red scarf over her hair and wrapping it into a tube. "Give me twenty minutes' start," she tossed over her shoulder. "Unless someone would like to go over the plan a tenth time."  
  
Her command was followed to the letter. Barely twenty minutes later, they left their horses tied by the stream. As they approached the road, Sansa gently suggested, "Maybe you should put the helmet on now."  
  
Brienne groaned and settled a heavy plate helm down over head, securing the chin strap. A flip of the faceplate and her true gender was effectively obscured. "It would help if I could at least see my own hands."  
  
Their boots clung to the mud of the well-traveled lane, the overcast sky denying any glitter of water to them, any glint of steel to onlookers. Sansa was forced to hold her skirt up around her ankles to prevent the fine ochre material turning brown.  
  
It wasn't long before the dank, heavy smell of the river announced that they were close. The trio rounded a bend and all at once, there it was, dwarfing even the water it spanned- the Twins. It was the site of Walder Frey's greatest victory, and if all went according to plan, it would soon be the site of his greatest defeat.  
  
They wordlessly trudged as one to a concealing copse by the side of the road and watched the farthest of the twin castles for several minutes. The simultaneous inhalation of breath was audible as a sliver of red jumped out against the gray of the stone and expanded downward from a high window. It was Yara's scarf, the signal that she was in place.  
  
Brienne leaned in close. "Do you have your blades?"  
  
"Always."  
  
The trek to the keep was occupied with thoughts of Robb and Mother. They walked this same path on the last day of their lives, thinking it was safe because an army of thousands walked behind them. Sansa had never seen such a thing, but she could imagine it. She could imagine it almost vividly enough to hear the rhythmic booms of thousands of feet marching behind her. One hand pressed the hard, warm disc of her lord's seal to her chest and quickly moved back to her side, in case anyone was watching. She knew it was a risk to wear it, even under layers of clothing. That understanding changed nothing. It was staying close to her heart.  
  
They were stopped at the gate by an animate cadaver in rather alarming black leather armor. "Sorry, m'lady. Gotta search you."  
  
She froze.  
  
"Just you. Your guards can keep their weapons, naturally."  
  
The man removed a single glove, one finger at a time, and slipped his hand beneath her heavy direwolf cloak, sliding fingertips down her back. She shot a warning glance at Brienne.  
  
He hummed and ran his hand down her legs before lifting her skirt high enough to check her boots. Fingers flexed, then his progress toward her chest was halted by three hands.  
  
"I'm just doing m' job, you know." He adopted a sanctimonious tone. "You could have weapons, er, in there."  
  
She touched her snug collar. "And how do you imagine I would reach them?"  
  
He pulled his arm away. "I guess I can call that good enough, seeing as you're a very _special_ guest." An aside to Brienne: "Strong grip you have."  
  
Sansa was suddenly seized by inspiration. "He can't answer you," she said, faintly emphasizing the 'he'. "He's mute."  
  
Their interrogator grinned. "I get it. Cut out the tongue and you know your secrets are safe."  
  
She had no idea what to say to that and so fell back on her most all purpose state: a half-smile.  
It notched down to a quarter-smile, then a holding pattern, as she followed him through the northern castle, flanked by her mismatched pair of guardians. Podrick moved his lips so close his breath tickled her ear and whispered, "I knew I recognized that fellow. That's Black Walder, Frey's favorite bastard."  
  
"Lucky him," muttered Sansa.  
  
Still, she tugged her collar up as they stepped out onto the bridge and the frigid river wind grabbed ahold of her bare neck.  Her hair was piled on top of her head in a style that vaguely struck her as something a foreign woman would wear, but it exposed the prickles at her nape. Even here, winter was coming, in more ways than one.  
  
On foot, it was a surprisingly long journey to the southern castle, where the Great Hall and main family quarters were located. The transition from sunlight to the deep gloom of the Hall itself left her blinking, Black Walder appearing before her as an inky shape waving her forward on her own.  
  
Sansa could feel the eyes on her before she could see them. Multiple rows of wildly differing ages, males on one side, females on the other. The Frey nearest to the head of the room was also the most conspicuous. A pregnant girl not much older than seventeen, puffy-eyed and bizarrely drawn for one so young, lowered her gaze to the floor as Sansa looked her way. The signs of trauma-induced timidity would have been easy to spot even without extensive personal experience in the subject.  
  
Finally, from the backlight he seemed to have deliberate placed his chair in front of, coalesced the hawk-like features of an old man. She curtsied before his disapproving frown, eyes demurely aimed at the middle distance.  
  
"Lord Frey, I am at your-"  
  
"You're applying for the job of my legally wed bed mate."  
  
Even now, Sansa was startled enough to meet his eyes.  
  
"Well, it's true, isn't it? Don't dilly dally, woman. I need a new wife, preferably one with money. You need a new husband, preferably one with a title and influence in the Seven Kingdoms. It's a perfectly common business arrangement."  
  
"My lord lives up to his reputation," she murmured.  
  
He snorted. "I bet I do. You're not bad looking, I'll give you that. A bit older than I like 'em, but the tits and ass haven't started to sag yet."  
  
The familiar taste of bile appeared in her mouth as he continued, "Although Alayne sounds like an awfully.... unforeign name to my provincial ear."  
  
This, at least, she had a prepared answer for. "Most of your countrymen find my real name unpronounceable. Alayne is the name I adopted when I came to your lovely land. I confess that I've begun to think of it as my real name."  
  
"Eh. It hardly matters what your name is. What matters is whether you have anything to offer me. How did you come to know of my need for a wife in the first place?"  
  
The cold fist in her stomach thawed by a few degrees. She seemed to be moving farther into well-rehearsed territory. "I spoke to your daughter in Winterfell. Lady Walda Bolton."  
  
A sudden movement in the corner of the eye caught her attention. The pregnant Frey girl had ceased inspecting the floor and sharply looked up at Sansa.  
  
"And how did Walda look? How have northern conditions been treating her?"  
  
"She looked in robust health."  
  
"How robust? Would you say she's gained weight?"  
  
Sansa lowered her lids modestly as she considered how to answer. Walder's rasping bark of laughter made her jump.  
  
"Just say it. She's a fucking cow. You really have met my daughter, then."  
  
"Congratulations on your new grandchild."  
  
The girl at the outer limits of her vision was still drinking in every word.  She opened her mouth, then seemed to think better of letting words escape.  
  
"New grandchild? They both know better than to bother me with that nonsense. I have more grandchildren than any man needs already."  
  
With introductions made and assurances tendered, some impatience of Sansa's own was starting to manifest. She ventured a sweet smile. "Is there someplace where we could discuss what we have to offer each other? Privately?"  
  
Walder flung his arm out expansively. "It's all here. I'm Lord of the Crossing, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident. Ain't that enough titles for ya?"  
  
In her experience, few things appealed more to a predator's instincts than the chance to put a young girl in a vulnerable position, yet "demure" was clearly not cutting it with this predator. She would have to be bolder. Now if only she knew what that meant. Seduction wasn't a skill any of her mentors had passed on.  
  
Or was it?  
  
"It's much warmer in here than I expected. May I remove my cloak?"  
  
"I couldn't care less."  
  
Sweeping the cloak off her shoulders, she turned and made her way slowly to the back of the room, swinging her hips in a way she'd seen Margaery Tyrell do when approaching a new person. She studied Podrick's face for some sign that she looked ridiculous and saw only bafflement at this off script turn of events. Sansa passed him the cloak at arm's length, another mannerism borrowed from Margaery, and suddenly remembered to breath as she returned.  
  
"I would like to bestow a gift to prove my ability and intent to follow through on my end of the arrangement. However, I must insist that it be for your eyes only."  
  
A knowing yet obtuse grimace spread across the face of Walder Frey. "How very kind of you."  
  
"It's no more than you should expect, my lord."  
  
He rose and gathered his robes pompously around him before smearing a sloppy kiss over her hand. This time, she actually had to swallow the swell of vomit. "Follow me, my lady." She settled on smoothing her skirts as a discreet way to wipe her hands.  
  
As they ascended a long spiral of steps, Walder trailed a hand over weeping stones. "You know, the Twins have never been breached. Not in six hundred years. Security is especially important these days, don't you think?"  
  
She blinked. "These days?"  
  
"Haven't you heard? A bunch of religious lunatics down in King's Landing have locked up the queen. Both queens, in fact. A pity. Always did fancy blondes."  
  
Sansa's first reaction was a stab of empathy for Margaery. Her feelings about Cersei's predicament were more confused. The Queen Regent had been kind enough to her... except for when she hadn't. A smile flashed briefly as a possible benefit of Cersei's imprisonment occurred to her. With most of the Lannister family's core gone and civil war threatening, any attempt the Crown might be making to find her would be hampered.  
  
Walder must have taken her silence as distress. "Damn crazies'll have us all prayin' twenty four hours a day, if they get the chance."  
  
"Enemies assail us from all sides," she agreed.  
  
As they passed into his private chambers, her eyes went over his shoulder to a chair facing them, then beyond that to a heavy tapestry with a slight bulge in it. "Please sit down."  
  
He grabbed her hand again and pulled her in tight. She gasped and fought an urge to lean back, to go for her knives right then and there. The tapestry shifted a hair.  
  
"I have no stomach for pleasantries, darling. There are more comfortable places to, ah hah, negotiate."  
  
"Please," she choked out. "Sit. Let me surprise you."  
  
He dragged her across the room by the hand, then released it and slowly sat. She cleared her throat in the "go" signal and Yara slipped out from behind the tapestry, creeping up.  
  
What happened next fell into place as neatly as if they had practiced it. Yara wrapped her arms around Walder's neck from behind as Sansa stepped forward and wedged one foot between his legs.  
  
Yara's arms tightened, throttling the man's cry in its cradle. "After what you did to her family, I wouldn't give her an excuse to crush them," she hissed into his ear. His struggles abruptly ceased.  
  
Sansa's stare was chilly and unblinking. "You're the third man to have looked at me with rape in his eyes. The other two are dead now."  
  
"I've done plenty of nasty things to a lot of people's families, but I think I know who you are. You're the Stark bitch. The kingslayer."  
  
"That would make us fellow kingslayers, wouldn't it?"  
  
His lips clamped together and went a sickly grayish-white as he considered his next words. "I suppose you're planning to kill me too."  
  
"I'm not going to kill you, Walder. That would make you a martyr, and you don't deserve to be a martyr. I'll just let the Crown do it for me."  
  
At this, he actually laughed. _Laughed._ She cut him off by leaning slightly more weight onto her upraised foot.  
  
She continued, "I don't think your friends will be very happy to learn that you're aiding their enemy, after all."  
  
"What in seven hells are you talking about?"  
  
She pulled a creased roll of parchment from her bag and tossed it into his lap. "According to that, you're offering the Riverlands an alliance in cutting off support to the rightful stewards of the North. Or at least, that's what it will say once you've signed it."  
  
"Why would I sign that?"  
  
Sansa drew two large pins from her hair, revealing slender blades at the ends. Liberated curls spilled down the back of her neck. She held up the knives and let him get a good look. "Because if you don't, I'll have a chance to use these. I've been looking forward to that."  
  
"Would you rather lose your left ear or your right ear first?" added Yara brightly.  
  
Walder fixed her with the inch-deep scowl that instantly froze his children in terror, but when the tickle of her blade behind his ear turned into a mild burn, he extended the parchment and accepted a quill. Yara breathed hotly in his ear, reminding him to behave, as he signed.  
  
"What is it with you Stark women and knives? Your misbegotten sore of a mother killed my wife, you know that? Slit her pretty throat, right in front of me, for spite. She was fifteen years old." Her grip tightened until the knuckles went the color of the bone they protected. "How appropriate that that madwoman created the very vacancy her mad daughter would go on to exploit."  
  
Sansa rested her fists on the arms of the chair so she could lean in without crushing those parts of him she held hostage. Her lips were an inch from his face, her eyes locked resolutely onto his. "Do you know why it's still vacant? Why missive after missive has gone unanswered?  No one wants to join their daughter with a traitor. Even their least beautiful are worth more than _that_."  
  
His smug grin disappeared as he squinted slyly up at her. "You're going to die, bitch, just like the rest of your failed line. I only signed your scrap of paper because I know neither of you are getting out of this fortress alive. By nightfall, you'll just be a few more bloodstains for the servants to try to scrub out of the stonework."  
  
"We'll see." She flipped the knives around to jut sharply downward, lifted them high and brought them whistling down to pin Walder Frey's hands to the armrests. Yara clamped a hand over his mouth, her other stout arm encircling him, as he bucked and shrieked. Sansa leaned into the handles and drove the points firmly into the wood. "Your servants can start with those."  
  
 As he stared in horror at the carved bone protruding from his withered hands, he realized that what he had taken for finely worked snake scales when the "pins" were in her hair were, in fact, Tully fish scales. Riverrun's answer to his "proposal". Walder opened his mouth to spew more threats, much simplifying the process of stuffing Yara's red scarf into it.    
     
They retrieved a heavy, knotted rope from under the bed and tied one end to a ring in the wall. When the other end went out a window, Walder finally seemed to understand that they were going to bypass his security completely.  
       
Through the frantic, garbled slurry penetrating the gag, Sansa suddenly made out a single word: Tully. She tore it away. "What was that?"  
  
"Your uncle. Edmure. He's still my prisoner. I still have him locked away in my dungeon."  
  
The women's eyes met across the room. After a stunned moment... "No," Yara said. "Not a  chance. The plan was to get in, get what we came for and get out, not stage a two woman rescue mission in a castle swarming with soldiers."  
  
"He's not just family. He's the only family I have left. How can I just leave him here?"  
  
"She makes a sound point," Walder piped up. "Who knows what I'll do to him when I get around to retaliating against you two?" Sansa stuffed the gag back in.  
  
"Maybe _you_ can't leave him, but I can. I don't answer to you, and I have nothing to gain from a suicide mission." She put one leg up on the windowsill and extended a hand.  
   
"The fearsome ironborn." Sansa made a dismissive sound. "Weren't you the one who was full of pretty words about paying the iron price, restoring your people's honor? Yet as soon as it gets difficult, you turn and run like a woman."  
  
Several seconds of tense silence followed. Yara blinked rapidly and swallowed. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. "How do you plan to even find him, much less get him out of here?"  
  
Something had been bothering her since the Great Hall, a persistent face- the girl she had felt such an instinctive kinship with. Her misery had been so much deeper than that of the wretched daughters beside her. She had been pregnant, but with no husband in sight. She had kept her arm wrapped defensively around her belly, as if fearing someone might try to take the child away from her.  
  
Now, with the mention of Edmure, these were all becoming clues that connected back to him. She reflexively lifted her hand back to the metal disc under her dress. Hadn't the Red Wedding been his own wedding to a daughter of House Frey? What had the bored socialites of King's Landing said her name was? Rosalind? No.  
  
Sansa's face, screwed up in fierce concentration, slowly relaxed. No, her name was Roslin.  
  
"I think I know someone who can help us."


	5. Daddy Daughter Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What are you doing here?" Roslin stammered. "Where is Father?"
> 
> "I apologize for disturbing you," said Sansa. "I know how much you must value your moments of solitude. There used to be a place a lot like this where I would go to be alone."
> 
> Roslin backed up. "Yes. That's right. I would like to be alone, please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One now has an audio commentary! Go to https://www.quotev.com/story/6885338/The-Price-She-Paid to listen to it.

"You _think_ you know someone who can help us, or you do?" demanded Yara. "Who is it?"  
  
Sansa side-eyed Walder Frey, who was watching keenly.  
  
"Right." Yara's leg came down off the windowsill. "Can you tell me how many guards were on the landing when you came in?"  
  
"Two."  
  
She whistled low. "Master Frey really does feel safe in his fortress. Still, it will arouse suspicion if you leave alone. Even more if I'm with you. Then one shout could send more running. The safest way to deal with them would be a rear assault."  
  
"You need to sneak up on them," Sansa translated.  
  
Yara ignored the interruption. "Princess, I bet you can handle a distraction." Her eyes swept the room before coming to rest on their captive. "I'll need the knives too."  
  
Sansa visibly hesitated.  
  
"I know you had plans for them, but if you-"  
  
"It's not that." She shakes her head. "It's just... You're going to kill them?"  
  
"How else are we going to keep them from raising the alarm?"  
  
"They're just doing their duty."  
  
Yara's eyes narrowed, her tone hardened. "Which is to spill our guts over the cobblestones if we make trouble. Or are you saying you'd rather give up after all?"  
  
Indeed, what choice did she have? She had promised her family vengeance on the night she'd put a not-dissimilar knife into the neck of Roose Bolton's only son. She had promised the Greyjoys and her other allies that she could do whatever was necessary. She grinned mischievously. "Does this mean you'll help me?"  
  
Her partner in crime leaned out the window and surveyed the area. "Let's get this rope up before someone sees it," returned the response.  
  
They retrieved the knives and bound Walder with sections cut from the rope. It was now too short for them to retreat that way. Point of no return.  
  
From their landing point on the shoreline, it would only have been a brief dash to the trees, where Podrick and Brienne and Yara's reinforcements were waiting. A highly mobile force of thirty men had retrieved their horses and forded the river just downstream while business at the Twins was being conducted.  
  
As small a group as it was, each and every one had been handpicked for his loyalty and elite battlefield prowess. Together with Brienne's human battering ram, they were likely a match for any pursuers the fortress could muster on short notice. Hopefully, the women and their rescued Tully wouldn't need to test that assumption.  
  
Sansa left the door open a crack as she swept out and past the guards.  
  
"Milady."  
  
She ignored the implicit command and continued across the landing.  
  
"Milady!" This one was directly behind her and more menacing.  
  
She turned and smiled wide. "Yes?"  
  
"Where is Lord Frey?"  
  
Her smile didn't budge by the smallest fraction. "Lord Frey? He'll live, but I'm afraid I had to tie him up."  
  
"Wha-"  
  
She watched placidly as both men fell at her feet, bone handles protruding from the backs of their necks, to reveal Yara behind them. "What are you doing?" asked Sansa as Yara's hand closed around the hilt of one guard's sword.  
  
"I'm not doing this unarmed."  
  
"Are you crazy? You can't walk around the castle with _that_!!"  
  
Yara settled into a sulk, but the point couldn't be argued.      
      
They dragged the bodies into their master's chambers. With difficulty, Sansa was able to extract her blades from their spinal columns, clean them and get them back into blond sheaths, once again nothing more than pretty, feminine accessories.  
  
Hand on the heavy iron door latch, she looked over her shoulder at Walder. "Keep an eye on your eldest. He must be tired of waiting for his birthright. Maybe enough to seek an arrangement of his own with the Lannisters."    
           
The pair placed their feet carefully as they descended steep, perspiring stone steps, Yara gathering up a white-trimmed cloak she carried draped over one arm. Selected from one of many oversized wardrobes upstairs, it was a prop that would allow her to pose as a lady's maid tending to the comfort of her mistress.  
          
"Congratulations, by the way," she said.  
  
"On what?"  
  
"On having such a badass mother. I can see where you got your affinity for the knife."  
  
Sansa paused, bracing herself against the wall as she looked up at Yara. "If she really killed an innocent woman, she wasn't the mother I knew anymore. And I don't have an affinity for weapons or fighting. Never did." She turned to hide the misting of her eyes and resumed her trek down the stairs. "Still, I suppose Walder Frey can have that effect on a person."  
  
"Are you talking about her or you?"  
  
When she didn't get a reply, Yara forged ahead. " _Life_ can have that effect on a person, princess. Give yourself some fucking credit. I've never seen any coddled ladies spin a set of blades like that."  
  
"It's because I sew. Gives you nimble fingers. That's what Mo- well, it does." She added, more softly "But thank you." The heat in her cheeks gave her another reason to be glad her back was turned.  
  
"Truth is," the other woman confessed, "I'm jealous. I don't remember my mother. I wonder what she'd she say if she knew I was helping a Stark rescue a Tully?"  
  
Her voice took on a brisker tone as they reached the lowermost landing. "All right, no prying ears here. Who's your friend?"  
  
"Not a friend. Do you remember seeing a pregnant girl, pretty but exhausted-looking?"  
  
"No."  
  
"She's Walder Frey's daughter, Roslin. Roslin married my uncle on the night he was captured and the rest of the family murdered."  
  
Yara's fists clenched in a wave of panic. "And you think she's going to help us rescue a husband she knew all of one day?"  
  
"Have you _met_ her father?"  
  
"Fair point."  
  
"But she won't help us because she's miserable. Believe me, it takes more than that to pull people away from what they know. She'll help us because she's scared."  
  
They proceeded down the hall at a sedate pace, trying to appear engaged in the most banal of chatter. "Perhaps because of the baby," Sansa tossed back over her shoulder.  
  
"Very well. But you understand that if she says no, I'll have to kill her."  
  
"Let's worry about that after we find her," she hissed through a vacuous smile.  
  
"This uncle of yours, what's he like?"  
  
"Nice, I guess. I only met him two or three times. Riverrun is a long way from Winterfell."  
  
"I hope he's worth all this. My uncle wasn't worth the effort it took his mother to squeeze him out."  
  
"Oh, I'm sure that's not true."  
  
"He murdered my father and tried to steal his throne."  
  
"I, um. I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't be. He got what was coming to him, just like old Frey will."  
  
"I'm glad I chose to do this today."  
  
"Today's as good as any other day."  
  
"It isn't. Today is my sixteenth birthday. This was supposed to be my gift to myself, but-" she flashed a grin back at Yara, "you're giving me two."  
  
Yara's eyebrow arched. "Don't say I never did anything for you, Alayne."  
  
They lingered discreetly outside the ogival archway of the family's common room, where a wide range of ages was present. Most were gathered around the enormous fireplace, but the entire room was easily visible from their position.  
  
Almost immediately, Sansa muttered, "She's not here."  
  
"You barely looked," Yara muttered back.  
  
"She's a bit hard to miss."  
  
They drifted off toward the Great Hall, on the theory that Roslin might simply have stayed there. "I hope I'm not imposing too much on your code of honor," teased Sansa, "with all this subterfuge. I know you'd rather charge in and dismember everyone in your path."  
  
"I've done my share of sneaking and subversion. Though it would be nice to get in a good dismemberment today." When she didn't get a laugh, she added, "This isn't like what my brother did, you know."  
  
The taller woman stopped. "Of course it's not."  
  
"I mean Theon only fought battles he knew he could win, and win easily. I was always taught that wasn't the true meaning of the iron price. If it comes too easy, no price was paid. No strength was shown. _That's_ why I changed my mind in the tower."  
  
Sansa turned and began to walk again.  
  
"Kraken's tentacles, Father was so furious when he heard! Not only was his son a bad general and an oathbreaker, but in trying to prove he was one of us, he proved just the opposite."  
  
"It doesn't matter," came the terse reply. "It's in the past."  
  
"But this isn't. And nothing will stop me from proving I'm the true heir to my father's throne."  
  
The teenager adopted a habitual hands folded pose and picked up the pace slightly. She knew her companion had meant this confession to be reassuring, a show of comittment to the cause. She hadn't meant to imply that if it had been a bit more difficult, she would gladly have sacked Sansa's home. There probably had been no intention to remind her that their alliance would last for as long as it was mutually beneficial. Besides, the success of their alliance so far was in no doubt. They both needed to focus on the task at hand if they wanted it to stay that way.  
  
The Great Hall turned out to be completely, depressingly devoid of human life. The co-conspirators stood inside the door, staring at the empty space as if they might see their quarry in the smoky ambience.  
  
"Maybe she's in her chamber," Yara proposed.  
  
There was no reply. Sansa's head was bowed and her folded hands grappled with each other. The peace of the sept-like space suggested something to her. She'd first noticed Roslin Frey because the girl had reminded her so much of herself, and when she had a lot to think about, there was a pattern she had found herself repeating in King's Landing, the Vale and occupied Winterfell.  
  
"I know what I said before, but I think it's time to admit-"  
  
Sansa spun to look at her. "Where in this place would you go if you wanted to be alone? Even more so than in your chamber?"  
  
"One of the turrets, I expect. Nice view of-"  
  
"The turret over their quarters! Why didn't I see it?" Yara gawped in amazement. "I'm an idiot; you're a genius!"  
  
*****************************  
  
The hatch was heavy, but clearly well-used. It rose with a whine so faint, they could hear the rustle of someone turning sharply over it.  
  
Sansa whispered, "Let me do the talking."  
  
The frigid air slipped under their cloaks and inflated their outlines, giving them a slightly imposing look as they climbed onto the roof of the turret.  
  
"What are you doing here?" Roslin stammered. "Where is Father?"  
  
"I apologize for disturbing you," said Sansa. "I know how much you must value your moments of solitude. There used to be a place a lot like this where I would go to be alone."  
  
Roslin backed up. "Yes. That's right. I would like to be alone, please."  
  
"I have to ask something very important of you first. Edmure needs your help." The small figure started. "He needs mine too. I'm his niece." She held out her hands as Roslin stepped toward her. "Don't worry, we're not here to hurt you. All we need you to do is get us into the dungeons. You can say-"  
  
The girl clutched at her arms. "If I help you, will you take me with you?"  
  
"Well, that was easy," Yara injected, a gust of wind snatching at the last word as if it didn't like the interruption.  
  
"What?" Sansa asked blankly. The carefully lined up arguments in her head were having trouble falling away quickly.  
  
"If I can get you to his cell, will you take me back to Riverrun with him???"  
  
Her chest constricted at the mixture of hope and terror swimming around in those eyes. It was like looking into a mirror, six monthes ago. "Of course. You're Edmure's wife, and the mother of his child. You'll be welcome there."  
  
"Then we have to move quickly. If my father... Wait, where is he?"  
  
"We tied him up," Yara cheerfully replied.  
  
A forbidding smile spread across Roslin's face. "Good."  
  
*********************  
  
They made an odd sight, marching single file across the bridge. The Frey daughter was in the lead, one arm supporting her cloak-wrapped belly. Behind her was a regal lady,  hands folded in front of her. Trailing was a much shorter maidservant, lank hair occasionally blowing over her face.  
  
Roslin had explained that the "dungeons" weren't actually dungeons, but cells built into the underside of the bridge. The main entrance was a barely visible hatch in the surface.  
"They only let me see him when my father decided I should produce an heir," she confided. "Maybe two or three times. I'm glad you came when you did, because I fear he's only keeping Edmure alive in case I birth a daughter."  
  
She threw back the hatch, releasing a cloud of stagnant, smoky vapor. As the three began to descend, four guards clattered to their feet.  
  
"Sorry, milady, but you're not allowed down here," the captain announced in a bored tone.  
  
Roslin sunk her chin to her chest and half-turned to Sansa. "Father is negotiating for a new wife. He asked me to show her the Twins, and she would very much like to see our famous Floating Cells."  
  
"Even across the Narrow Sea, they're known as architectural marvels," Sansa flattered. "I've been looking forward to seeing them for weeks."  
  
"And I'll be happy to let you see them, once I hear permission from Lord Frey."  
  
"If my father had wanted to do this himself," Roslin came back in a slightly stronger voice, "he would have done so. But he gave the task to me. Do you really want to roust him from his bed to make him repeat himself?"  
  
The captain exchanged uncertain glances with the other guards. Just as Sansa felt he was about to relent, he shook his head. "I have my orders. The rest of the castle may be open to our guest, but the cells are not."  
  
The girl looked hopelessly back at her. At the same moment, she felt the warning pressure of Yara's hand on her back. If they couldn't talk their way through these guards, they would have no choice but to turn back. It would be impossible for Yara to silently dispose of them, as she had outside Walder's chambers.  
  
Bureaucratic rigidity was normally considered a virtue in a prison guard. Would he become suspicious if she pressed? What would Littlefinger say? Littlefinger wouldn't be in this situation. He would never risk himself for anyone.  
  
As her internal battle raged, Roslin's jaw tightened. She met the captain's eyes for the first time, and her gaze was pleading. "What if one of you goes with us, to make sure I stay away from _him_?" The last word was spoken in a lowered, confidential tone.  
  
The man looked startled.  
  
Ingrained timidity crept back in as she attempted to explain. "I know you've served my father for a long time. I remember you. So you know he doesn't tolerate excuses."  
  
Sansa picked up on the new tack. "It's all right. I'll just go get Lord Frey and ask him-"  
  
"That won't be necessary." Roslin's voice quaked with very real desperation. "Will it? After all, how much trouble can three women cause?"  
  
He whistled a resigned breath through pursed lips. "I suppose a few minutes can't hurt. Only a few."  
  
'Thank you," Roslin tearfully whispered. "I won't forget your kindness."  
  
Their unwitting new benefactor opened the door and barked a few orders. As the three rescuers stepped into the darkness beyond, it enveloped them in sooty smoke and other, far more fetid smells. Sansa let out a small cough.  
  
From what a single torch could reveal, they seemed to be in a small stone antechamber with a grated slit in the floor, from which a whirling column of light rises. Little of it spilled into the antechamber. Condensation glistened and oozed like mucous on the wall behind the torch. It was a place that instantly wore out its welcome.  
  
Their escort flipped idly through his key ring as Roslin explained that a latrine, a dressing room and various storage areas had been cleverly slotted in above, below and to either side of this room.  
  
Her spiel came to a sudden halt when a key went into the door to the cells. She looked expectantly at Sansa, who passed it to Yara.  
  
The counterfeit lady's maid stepped forward and grabbed the hilt of the guard's sword. With shocking speed, his mailed fist knocked her aside.  
  
Sansa snatched both blades from her hair, crouched and swept them across her most recently learned Vulnerable Target, the Achilles tendons. The guard hit the floor before he could even grunt.  
  
Yara stomped his jaw, snapping the man's neck with a wet crack that turned Roslin green and forced a flinch even from Sansa. She hefted the sword like a prize. "I assume there are no objections to keeping this one?"  
  
The taller woman lifted her chin, eyes cast down and composure restored. She shook her head a single time.  
  
The Frey girl was now bent over a rough-hewn table, retching. "You said getting us in here would be easy," Yara accused.  
  
"I thought it would be. Threats of Father's wrath usually aren't questioned."  
  
"And I assume there are more like him ahead of us?"  
  
She nodded. "But only one between us and Edmure."  
  
"Well, you made it this far, so obviously you must have permission to be here. If we're lucky, we can take care of him without bringing the whole castle down on us. Where's that armory you were talking about?"  
  
Still not looking up, she gestured to a side door. Yara unlocked it and soon emerged with three loaded crossbows.  
  
Two of them were deposited on the table, then she lifted Sansa's hands and placed the third in them. "You're guarding the door. If anyone shows their face, point this at it, pull the trigger, get another one."  
  
"Wait! What if I run out of arrows?"  
  
"Bolts."  
  
"What if I run out of bolts?"  
  
"Then run, because you don't have time to learn reloading."  
  
She tucked the sword away under her cloak and tugged at their guide's hand. "Try to hold onto your breakfast."  
  
As she waited, Sansa bounced anxiously on her toes, feeling much younger than her sixteen years. The crossbow was heavier than it looked and kept drifting down. Finally, she just let it hang at the ends of her arms.  
  
Joffrey had once held a very similar weapon on her, for the sadistic entertainment of himself and his court. Now that power was literally in her own hands. Could she enjoy it as much as he had?  
  
Slowly, she raised the crossbow and pictured Joffrey's face appearing in the doorway. Then Ramsay's. Then Roose Bolton's.  Her fingertip lightly tested the bolt's sharpness. _Yes_ , she decided. This was a feeling she could grow to like very much.  
  
She spun with a gasp as the door behind her flew open.  
  
"We have a problem," Yara forced out through gritted teeth. "Your uncle won't come out of his cell."  
  
"What???"  
  
"He seems to think this is some kind of trick. If he sees you, maybe he'll-" Her partner was already pushing past her.  
  
The chamber opened out into a surprisingly large catwalk with more floor slits offering a view down into the river at regular intervals. The floor was strewn with musty straw, dampening footsteps, and a lonely set of manacles swung from the wall.  
  
Sansa heedlessly pulled her skirt up to her knees as her long legs carried her down the catwalk with impressive speed. Roslin Frey's form could be seen leaning cumbersomely over an open hatchway, torch lowered into it.  
  
At the bottom of this "floating" cell, Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, sat with his arms wrapped around his knees.  
  
"Uncle Edmure," Sansa called down softly. "It's your niece, Sansa. I'm here to take you home, but you _must_ hurry."  
  
He peered up at her with suspiciously narrowed eyes. "Sansa is a ginger. If they wanted to see if I would take the bait, they should have paid more attention to detail."  
  
Yara threw up her hands. "We're trying to rescue you, you dimwit."  
  
"You're just a maid," he pointed out. "How are _you_ going to rescue anyone?"  
  
"If he doesn't want to go," she advised, "you can't make him. Trust me."  
  
Roslin cradled her overhanging belly and the action seemed to remind her why she was doing this in the first place. Silent up to now, she leaned farther forward to give him a look at her pregnant body. "If you don't get me to Riverrun, our baby'll be used as a weapon by my father and the Lannisters for the rest of its life. Neither of us have a choice. Our lives are not our own anymore."  
  
Edmure lowered his face into his knees. After a few suspenseful moments, he rose and climbed the ladder to the catwalk. He blinked at Sansa, his eyes unaccustomed even to the light level provided by the torches. "It really is you." A curious mix of wonder, nostalgia and shame underlaid his voice. "You were eleven the last time I saw you, but I still can't believe I..."  
  
He shook his head and turned to Roslin. "I'd hug you, but I must smell awful."  
  
"Reunions later," Yara broke in. "How are we getting out of here?"  
  
"You have all the experience with this sort of thing," answered Sansa.  
  
Edmure's face took on a pained expression. "I know a way out." He looked from one eager face to the next. "The floors in the cells open onto the river. A prisoner can then be lowered into the water as a... a method of torture."  
  
"But we can't do _that_!" Sansa cried. "We'll freeze to death!"  
  
Roslin seemed even more opposed to the idea. "We can use the servants' doors. They're not as heavily guarded."  
  
"The reason they're not is that we'd still have to get through the stronghold," Yara countered.  
  
"There has to be another way," insisted Sansa. "We have the crossbows. You have a sword." Even as she said it, she knew how pointless it was.  
  
"If we made it to the bridge, the only way out would still be the river. We'll be fine. I've been in colder water than this."  
  
Edmure spoke up again. "We can use that bench to keep us afloat as our limbs stiffen." It sounded like he spoke from experience.  
  
Throughout the brief debate, he had been worrying at something around his neck. Now, as he tried to clean it with a filthy scrap of what was likely his wedding garb, Sansa recognized it. An idea was born.  
  
"I need this," she proclaimed, lifting it over its owner's befuddled head. "Move the bench while I'm gone." And with that, she headed for the entrance, oblivious to the sticky pull of the blood-soaked spot where a guard had met his end at the point of Yara's sword.  
  
In the antechamber, she placed Edmure's Riverlands Lord's Seal around the still-warm neck of their chaperone. She had helped kill this man. She wasn't proud of that, exactly, but with her plan to leave a message in Frey's chamber upended, this more public symbol of rebellion seemed fitting.  
  
Sansa jumped at the clang of a bolt being thrown, elation turning to quicksilver terror faster than she ever would have thought possible. She flew from the room and saw the other three setting the bench down in front of the cell nearest the entrance, the better to shorten the distance they would have to swim.  "They're here!" she stage whispered, back pressed to the door.  
  
Yara ran to lock it. It would only buy them a few seconds and Sansa berated herself for not bringing the crossbows with her. Instead, she frantically stuffed straw into the keyhole, hoping to jam the lock, as Edmure released a wall-mounted wheel. It spun, unwound a chain as thick around as a horse's ankle, and let the two halves of the cell floor drop open with a boom that surely must have been audible all up and down the bridge.  
  
They lined up behind the bench, gripping its back. "Don't think about it," Yara advised. "Just-" Her words were lost in the whipping of wind as Roslin dragged them all over the edge.  
  
A detached part of Sansa's brain noted how odd it was that her own spluttering screams didn't drown out those of her comrades. Waves and pillars swirled around her as everyone kicked in a different direction. "STOP!" she shrieked.  
  
She pointed at the muddy brown of the shore. "That way." They unclasped their cloaks and let them spread out behind like squid ink as they paddled furiously toward land.  
  
A current caught the group as they intersected it and nudged them out of the shadow of the bridge. Sansa could already feel needles of ice trying to lock her muscles into place, and the weight of eight yards of waterlogged brocade was not helping matters.  When she wriggled out of the dress, it didn't even float. The sunset fabric merely disappeared into the depths, making one last effort to take her with it as it tangled around her feet.  
  
They slowed, each stroke bringing groans of pain. She turned her head and saw that Roslin and Yara had each looped an arm under one of Edmure's to anchor their precious cargo, so precious they'd risked everything for it. Yara hissed at all and no one "Faster."  
  
Shouts fell down on them from the surface of the bridge, sounding much further away than they must have been, and something splashed behind them.  
  
Praying it wasn't an arrow, Sansa focused on making the shore approach faster. So focused was she that she didn't notice the running figures until Brienne was feet away from the waterline. Her anxious liegewoman plunged waist deep into water and began to pull them ashore. Just behind her was a man in Iron Islands garb.  
  
Sansa dug numb toes in the mud and tried to push off, but with little success. Her fingers, by contrast, seemed permanently attached to the bench's stained lip.  
  
As they lay gasping on the ground, she fixed bloodshot eyes on Edmure and Roslin, trying to communicate through her gaze how important they were. Finally, she managed to croak, "Help them."  
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
  


	6. A River Runs Through It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Uncle!” she cried, rushing forward to crush the old man in her encircling arms.

  


Sansa Stark sniffed and surreptitiously wiped her nose with her sleeve. She was riding double again, this time behind Roslin Frey- Roslin Tully now, she had to remember. They were safely ensconced in the middle of Yara Greyjoy's team, but she could hear the woman herself sniffle up front, as if on Sansa's cue.  
  
By contrast, Roslin seemed totally unaffected by her frigid swim.  
  
" _I have the Frey constitution," she had told them. "It's the reason Father didn't inherit his title until he was fifty-three."_  
  
_"How old is your eldest brother now?" Sansa had asked her._  
  
_"Stevron? Fifty-four. Why?"_  
  
_"Just making conversation." The suggestion of a smug grin on her lips had said otherwise._  
  
Edmure had not been nearly so lucky. His body was weakened by everything he had endured as a guest of Lord Frey. Now he lay strapped to a crude pallet that was being pulled behind a horse, babbling in delirium.  
  
_Brienne had wrapped Sansa in her own cloak and slung her in undignified fashion over her horse's withers. For what had felt like days, but had since blurred into a vague, timeless impression in her mind, she had watched the ground speed past. With the clack of her teeth accompanying each stride, it had developed a hypnotic rhythm._  
  
_Every so often, a sound would penetrate the thunder of hooves. (Had hooves always been that loud?) A shout. A crash. As heat from the horse's steaming flesh had returned sensation to her limbs, she had tried to lift her head and nearly fallen off._  
  
_After that, she'd kept her head down and her hands wrapped securely around the girth._  
  
_When at last it had all come to a stop, it had only been long enough for the escapees to change into dry clothing. Sansa and Roslin had retired to the privacy of a clump of underbrush, but Yara had been perfectly happy to strip and towel down in full view of everyone. Her men had seemed equally unperturbed, as if this was something they saw all the time._  
  
_Sansa had envied her confidence and her air of total ownership over her own body. Still, she had stayed behind the protection of the makeshift dressing screen._  
  
They smelled the river before they saw it. The earthy odor of silt came first, followed by the crisp snap of water as they got closer. When the broad rust sweep of the Red Fork appeared, they watered the horses as briefly as they dared and released their relieved captive.  
  
_They had pushed forward hard that first day, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the Twins as possible before nightfall. Edmure had weathered the trail well enough and showed signs of returning vigor as he'd cheered Yara's (heavily embellished) campfire account of his rescue._  
  
_But in the middle of the night, the fever had come. The soldiers had constructed the same sort of pallet they used to move wounded comrades, and before daybreak, the party was in search of a meister._  
  
_That search would take them dangerously close to the main road, but Roslin had succeeded in convincing one to ride out to help her ailing husband. To Yara's astonishment, everyone had immediately agreed to her suggestion that he should come along and continue tending to his patient._  
  
Downstream, they bought one of the many rowboats travelling the Red Fork, some lazily, others with a distinct sense of purpose. As Podrick helped Brienne squeeze the pallet into the boat, Yara sidled up to Sansa.  
  
“Look on the bright side. At least he doesn’t weight much.” A glassy stare, as if just coming out of a reverie, was her response. She cleared her throat. “Good luck.”  
  
“I don’t need luck. Not anymore.”  
  
She nodded to Edmure. “But he does. I hope you get your happy little family reunion, I really do. Just don’t forget what you’re fighting for. _Whateve_ r happens.”  
  
_She had pulled back on the reins until Sansa caught up with her. “Don’t get me wrong. Hearing that I took on the Twins basically alone-“_  
  
_Sansa peered darkly from the corner of her eye._  
  
_“-or with the aid of two noblewomen, will certainly improve my chances of holding on to my crown. I’m still not going into another fight without a real plan. As in a plan with a beginning, middle and end and an escape route. From now on-“_  
  
_“I agree.” With her uncle safe and the rush of rescue fading, the newborn leader had found herself shaking so violently, she had had to hold her legs away from her horse’s flanks. The shaking was subsiding, as was the swell of nausea that came with it, but the memory of the risk she had taken had still appalled her._  
  
_Yara had ridden alongside her in silence for a moment, studying her face. “This must be my lucky week. Everyone’s agreeing with me all of a sudden.”_  
  
_“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Sansa had deflected. “When my uncle refused to come with us, you said we couldn’t make him. What made you so sure?”_  
  
_“I just… It’s just that in my experience, people do what they want.” An uneasy laugh caught in her throat. “Guess he showed me up, didn’t he?”_  
  
_Sansa had not mentioned that the way Yara had said “Trust me” had implied a far more personal experience. She had let her have her reciprocal parry. She hadn’t forgotten, though. It had changed her opinion of her partner, if only a bit._  
  
“How many do you think you’ll be bringing back?” Sansa asked.  
  
Yara’s coterie was departing for a cove roughly a day’s ride from Riverrun, long used by the ironborn as a safe haven on a hostile coast. This was where they would rendezvous with the piecemeal reinforcements she had sent for.  
  
“Two hundred should be there already. By the time I get there, it will be three hundred. That’s all for a while. We don’t normally stage raids so close together.”  
  
“That will be enough for now.” Sansa looked the other woman firmly in the eye. “Make sure they don’t forget what they’re fighting for.”  
  
The dust of their passing settled as the rowboat pushed off. Roslin had seated herself behind the pallet, where her pregnant condition was hidden from view, and occasionally dipped a cloth into the chilly water of the river, perfect for pressing to Edmure’s forehead to leech away fever. When it wasn’t her turn to row, Brienne stood at the bow, legs braced, letting the whole world know that her charges were to be avoided. Her head rotated endlessly back and forth as she kept watch through the narrow eye-slit in the helmet she had once again been forced to don.  
  
For her part, Sansa had seen plenty of brown and green from horseback, the colors turning to blotches of black and white against her closed eyelids. The sprays of red, orange and yellow that could still be seen on a few trees this far south couldn’t distract from her favorite method of killing time – needlework.  
  
As she tucked her latest project away to take up the oars, Pod plopped down across from her. “How’d you find out about this secret entrance, anyway?”  
  
“When Bran would climb where he wasn’t supposed to, or Arya explored the tunnels, or Robb went off into the forest by himself, Mother would tell them about how she almost died in the secret dock at Riverrun. She never told me this story, of course.” She flashed a exaggeratedly prim smile. “I was a very obedient child.”  
  
“That’s one thing we have in common.”    
  
“I heard it, though, many, many times. She and her sister weren’t even supposed to know about the dock, but they found it anyway. Lysa dared her to jump the canal. She fell in and nearly drowned.” Her leather-clad palms slid effortlessly across wood as she brought the oars forward.  
  
“Sounds like they were very naughty children.”  
  
“My mother grew out of it. Aunt Lysa didn’t.” The dripping oars swung forward again, droplets glowing in the dusk. “Do you know a lot of these old cities are supposed to have hidden escape routes for their noble houses?”  
  
Pod’s eyebrows rose, giving his round face a naïve quality that would look disingenuous on most.  
  
Basking in the novel feeling of superior knowledge, Sansa continued, “The rumor was that Winterfell’s was a tunnel leading under the wall. If it ever existed, though, it’s been forgotten for hundreds of years.”  
  
Their guardian’s voice echoed tinnily inside her helmet. “There was a windowless room at Evenfall Hall that Renly told me used to be a hidden room. I’m not sure he wasn’t just teasing me, but I always did fancy that room.”  
  
By the time they reached the home stretch to Riverrun, night had fully fallen. Brienne abandoned her impression of a ship’s figurehead and slouched low against the bow, but it was hardly neccessary. It was so dark they could barely make out shapes in the dense shields of growth on the banks. To the right, slashes of light from an army’s fires occasionally rent the fabric.  
  
The five glided silently up to the black behemoth that loomed over them and Podrick lit a candle. Sansa played its trembling illumination over the wall, pulling them hand over hand along the vines bursting through the cracks, until she found the leaf-clogged grate that covered the entrance.  
  
The sides of Edmure’s pallet scraped the walls as it ascended a thin ribbon of steps to the exit, and he woke with a groan. Sansa led the way through the door at the top.  
  
“Halt.” The outline of a sword appeared, limned in a glow thrown off by a single torch. There was a lengthy pause, as if the person behind the sword was trying to make sense of seeing a soignée young lady here.  
  
Sansa stepped into the breach. “I need to speak to Brynden Tully.”  
  
“Who are you?”  
  
“His grandniece. And they-“ she stepped aside and held her candle out to the doorway, revealing the pallet in Roslin’s grip, “are your Lord and your Lady.” A ripple of sighs as shadows moved behind the molten sword. “The others helped rescue them. Now may I speak to my uncle?”  
  
****************  
  
“Uncle!” she cried, rushing forward to crush the old man in her encircling arms.  
  
“By the Seven, you’ve grown,” he wheezed. “You’re taller than me! And maybe my memory is going, but weren’t you a ginger?”  
  
Sansa looped a golden ringlet around her finger. “Too ginger. I had to change it so I could hide.”  
  
The Blackfish watched as she peeled her gloves off one finger at a time. “What?” she asked.  
  
“You reminded me of Cat for a moment,” he grinned.  
  
“Hmmm. You’re not the only one.” She ran the bundled gloves over her palm. The hide was soft as kid leather from countless hours of friction against reins. “But I suppose without Petyr Baelish’s help, I would have been executed as a kingslayer.”  
  
“ _Did_ you slay Joffrey?"  
  
"No. If only I had."  
  
She lowered herself slowly into a chair by the oversized fireplace, an involuntary groan escaping as she sank into the cushion. The Blackfish took the chair opposite.  
  
"Ah, well. I can think of worse things to take credit for. What about Roose Bolton?"  
  
"What about him?"  
  
"Do I owe you credit for ridding the world of his wretched hide?"  
  
"You're thinking of Ramsay, his bastard." She leaned in mock-seriously. "But I promise you I had no choice."  
  
"I'm thinking of the traitor himself. Everyone's saying it was you, come back to-" He spread his hands grandiosely. "-avenge the betrayal of the North."  
  
Her expression was pure befuddlement.  
  
"You really didn't know he was dead?"  
  
Finally, she managed a "How?"  
  
"Took an arrow to the heart during a hunting expedition, that's the word. The funny part is that his hounds couldn't catch the assassin."  
  
A queasy rumble formed in the pit of Sansa's stomach. It should have been welcome news, but her stomach and the itch deep in her brain were telling her otherwise. She turned to the fire, frowning, and fumbled with the clasp of her cloak.  
  
"I didn't know Bolton well, but I fought beside him for monthes. Hell, I fought beside him in Robert's war! If I'd seen him for the disloyal scoundrel he was then, maybe I could have stopped him. Maybe Cat..." He trailed off, rubbing his beard.  
  
"Speaking of disloyal scoundrels," his great-niece began. She dropped her gloves onto the side table between them and slid a blood-spattered scroll across it. "One part of the rumor is true. I've been thinking about justice for the North quite a bit."  
  
"Quite a bit," she repeated as he stretched out the crinkled parchment.  
  
His eyes skimmed down to Walder Frey's signature, then lifted with a question in them. Sansa told him the entire story of how she came to be sitting across from him, starting with her unexpected departure from King's Landing and ending with her rescue of Edmure.  
  
As she moved from highlight to highlight, the Blackfish's expression shifted from inscrutability to anger to escalating amazement to horror to something suspiciously resembling respect.  
  
"Between you and me, I always hoped I'd live long enough to see the Fortress breached."  
  
"I didn't conquer them, Uncle Brynden. I got in and I got out."  
  
"And freed my sorry nephew in between." The silver in his eyebrows glinted as they rose. "I can't say I think it was worth the risk, but the Riverlands thank you. This plan to beat the schemers and connivers at their own game, though, it's mad."  
  
"Should I be flattered or insulted?"  
  
"It all depends on this letter being accepted as the Late Lord Frey's. It might. You got his scrawl on it."  
  
Sansa was already shaking her head. She reached into the bag hanging heavy from her belt and produced a small knob of clay. It was the fruit of a second skill that her septa would have been pleased to see proving useful- sculpture. She had meticulously recreated the Frey Lord's Seal from her own correspondence with Walder.  
  
The Blackfish held a candle up to the replica, turning and tilting it. Sansa took the candle from him and poured liquid wax onto the folded edge of the incriminating letter. Then she pressed the counterfeit seal into it.  
  
"Is it good enough to convince the Crown?" she asked.  
  
"It's perfect. You _are_ a girl of many talents. Must be the Tully side coming out."  
  
"I recommend you send it tonight. A raven against a black sky will be invisible." She stood, ignoring a popping joint. "It's late. I'm sure my friends would appreciate a bed as much as I would."  
  
"Of course. You'll all be welcome in Riverrun for as long as you'd like."  
  
*****************  
  
Sansa examined her face in the foggy mirror. She had lost weight in the monthes on the road and it had altered her face. She now had a narrower, sharper look, with distinct cheekbones and eyes looking out alertly from the angles.  
  
A rosy bloom showed at her hairline. She rubbed at the wet film on the glass with her skirt and put her face as close as she could without blocking her own view.  
  
Her hair had always grown fast, so fast that she was the only person in her faimily who had needed regular haircuts. Ginger roots were already showing. It triggered such an unexpected surge of nostalgia that she decided to let it grow out. Soon enough, she would have an army to protect her. Why bother with a disguise?  
  
Sansa laid Robb's seal on the warm planks and cut a lock of hair. The thin golden rope wove through the links of the chain, both keepsake and reminder of the need to do whatever it took to survive.  
  
She slipped out of her gown and shift and tested the bath with one foot. It was unbelievably, blissfully perfect. She felt as if muscles that had been tightly clenched for weeks were finally releasing as she lowered her body into the water.  
  
The bath was big enough for several people and lined with clay tiles to hold heat. Uncle Brynden had told her the water was pulled directly from the river through pipes and heated in a special furnace before being piped to the bathouse. Sansa closed her eyes and sagged beneath the surface. Why hadn't her mother had one of these built at Winterfell? When she got her home back, that was the first thing she would do.  
  
Bubbles burst violently from her mouth as the thought of Winterfell dredged up the memory that had left her uneasy since she'd heard the story of Roose Bolton's assassination. She sat up.  
  
A tall, dark-haired woman in a leather-jerkined dress that made her look like a huntress. She had been hard to miss, surrounded by armored men as Sansa had passed the archery range. She had actually stopped to watch- yes, she remembered that- as the woman had drawn back her bow, her arms forming a precise triangle. Then her arrow had blurred  down the full length of the range and stopped, quivering, in the red bullseye of a target.  
  
Sansa went back under the water and listened to the pounding of blood in her ears. The same woman had gleefully told of hunting humans with her love, Ramsay Bolton. And she worked at the castle kennel.  
  
Myranda. 


	7. Morning, Afternoon and Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The woman pinched a strip of meat that was just beginning to turn between her thumb and forefinger, watching pink, slobbering muzzles snap at the prize dangling just out of their reach. At length, she threw it. A peculiar little smile crept over her face at the sight of the hounds fighting over the scrap. It vanished when a gravelly voice called her back to her duties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two now has audio commentary! You can listen at https://www.quotev.com/story/6885338/The-Price-She-Paid/2.

Sansa Stark was a column on the highest battlement of Riverrun's keep, as gray and motionless as the rock piles around her. The wind at this elevation tried relentlessly to bite through to the bone, but she hardly noticed.  
  
Spread below her like a bas-relief toy map was a thicket of red and yellow tents. It sloped up a hill to blend with the colors of the forest, dimmed by muddy morning light. Clumps of black dots moved sluggishly up and down the map's rows, but to her left, there was no sign of life among the white birch of a village. She had long since stopped looking.  
  
Her head turned slightly at the scrape of someone walking along the battlement towards her. She could hear the creak of leather as the Blackfish moved up beside her.  
  
"I thought I might find you here," he said. "Up where it's lonely. It's a shame about the view, though. I would have liked for you to be able to see Riverrun at its best. In full summer bloom, without all those boots churning up the fields."  
  
"I can imagine how beautiful it must be," Sansa mused. Her shoulders twitched in what could be an incipient shrug. "But this has its charms too."  
  
"You're up early. Having trouble getting used to a soft bed?" He chuckled as she raised an eyebrow at him. "You're talking to an old soldier, girl. Sleep on the ground for a few weeks and a real bed starts to feel a bit like torture."  
  
"How's Uncle Edmure doing?"  
  
"Not much change. His wife tended to him all night, though. I think she's afraid we'll turn her out if he dies."  
  
Sansa's response was to lean between two crenelations, fingers splayed lightly on the stone, and look down. "Do you see what's changed in that first row of tents?"  
  
The Blackfish followed her example. "The coat of arms is flying. Stevron must be here, for all the good it'll do them. He's a terrible general."  
  
"That doesn't seem to concern Lord Frey. He's panicking."  
  
"As sweet as it is to think of the soon-to-be-late Frey cowering in his bed, he's a very dangerous man to have as an enemy. You were right to come here. Too many of Kat's children have suffered for other people's wars."  
  
She avoided his efforts to meet her eyes, instead watching the banner bearing the coat of arms with a peculiar intensity. "I have no shortage of very dangerous enemies."  
  
"So you've said. Why didn't you take refuge at The Wall?"  
  
Sansa's dry, sardonic chuckle barely even reached his ears. "I've surrounded myself with murderers and rapers before. I wasn't eager to make _that_ mistake again."  
  
"I never thought of it that way."  
  
"No one ever does. Besides, Jon didn't help Robb or Bran and Rickon." She smiled at her great-uncle. "Are you different? Can I count on you?"  
  
"I told you, you can stay as long as you like."  
"You know that's not what I mean."  
  
"What do you want me to do? Abandon my home? I can't."  
  
"Edmure is your lord and commander. Now that he's back, it's his job to protect Riverrun, not yours."  
  
" _If_ he survives, even Edmure won't abandon his home to the tender mercies of the Freys or the Lannisters."  
  
She blinked, then shook her head. "You misunderstand. How many soldiers does it take to defend a city like this?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"A city like this, you know, with strong walls and a moat. What's the smallest force that could hold it?"  
  
"I don't know. Maybe two hundred."  
  
"And how many soldiers do you have right now?"  
  
He looked at her with dawning comprehension. "I let others fight for me at the Red Wedding. I won't do that again. Not here."  
  
Sansa placed a confiding hand on his shoulder. "And if you hadn't, none of us would be here right now. Riverrun would already be flying House Frey's banner. How much longer do you think you can keep that from happening on your own?"  
  
"Until the food runs out. Which won't be for a very long time."  
  
"And then what? You need the support of the North to break this siege, and all the sieges that will follow. Support you'll only get if we take it back."  
  
"I swear, it's like Ned's voice is coming out of your mouth." He turned up his palms in mock surrender.  
  
"I never paid much attention when my father talked. Or my mother, come to think of it."  
  
That got a grudging laugh out of him. "How am I supposed to get an army out of here anyway? You may have noticed that a much bigger army is camped outside our gates."  
  
Sansa lifted her eyes to the horizon she had crossed to get here. An ugly bruise had spread across the cloud cover.  
"I've already taken care of that."  
  
  
*****************  
  
From a bird's eye view, the Grey Cove would resemble an oblong bowl hollowed out of the rock of the shoreline. The only way in from the sea was a passage barely wide enough for a single sailing ship, partly obscured by overhanging rock slabs that looked as if they could topple at any moment. The only way in by land was a crevice carved by a long-dried stream that once emptied into the sea.  
  
Between the two, the striated depression of the Grey Cove itself spread out. Some said its name derived from House Greyjoy, others from the color of the tons of steel that had passed over it. One thing it clearly had not been named after was its own color, which was a pleasant greenish-blue. Regardless of the truth of its origins, its existence had been a closely guarded secret among the ironborn for millennia.  
  
At the moment, the history and geography of the cove were the farthest things from Yara Greyjoy's mind. The sun beat down from directly above and the air within the protection of the towering cliffs was warm enough for her to quite comfortably sit underwear-clad on her lieutenant's lap. She looped her arms around his neck and leaned back, legs kicking boisterously out. Her eyes closed as she inhaled the perfume of the plant life that flourished in this sheltered niche.  
  
She felt the lap under her shake and realized her second-in-command was laughing at her. "Shale? What the hell?"  
  
"You don't smile like that very often. Was I really that good?"  
  
She punched his arm, too hard to be a joke yet not hard enough to be serious. "Ask me after I find someone to compare you to."  
  
They both took in the strained jollity going on around them.  
"It wouldn't be too hard, even for you. They're bored." She punched him again. "When are they going to see the battle you promised?"     
  
"We set out tomorrow. When we get there, we just have to wait for the Stark girl's signal."  
  
Shale didn't answer. When she next looked at him, no hint of his needling grin remained. "I thought you would be happy to hear that."  
  
"You didn't tell her where we are, did you?"  
  
"Of course not! All she knows is that we anchored somewhere along the coast." Without removing her arms, she turned her palms up and teased, "I think our secret is safe for another generation."  
  
"Good. Good. I just think- well, I don't want you to make a mistake."  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"It's bad enough that you've allied yourself with the family that humiliated your family. It can only weaken your authority further to be seen taking orders from a woman."  
  
"I _am_ a woman."  
  
"It's not the same thing, though."  
  
"You seemed to think it was _exactly_ the same thing an hour ago," Yara shot back, nuzzling into Shale's neck.  
  
He pushed her away. "It's not." His eyes shifted as he searched for the words to give shape to what was in his head. "You were born with the body of a woman, but the soul of a man. That's why you can fight, can lead. It's what your father saw when he named you his true heir."  
  
She stared into his earnest face, thunderstruck. To the extent that she had ever thought about how her soldiers accepted a female's command, this bizarre rationalization wasn't something she could have anticipated. Was that really how they all thought of her? As an accident of birth?  
  
"I'm going to get more mead," she suddenly announced. "I, for one, plan on raising a little hell before we march.  
  
The sand was cool between her bare toes, shockingly so, as she wound through the tents. No effort was being made to guard their small camp. There was no need. The islands maintained a permanent outpost here for the sole purpose of silencing anyone unlucky enough to stumble across their secret. In Yara's lifetime, only one person had been so unlucky.  
  
Her men barely looked at her as she passed by them, chest shifting in the tight linen of her undershirt with each step. An impressive cask that had occupied its own launchboat sat like an ancient monument between the camp and the shoreline, and as Yara reached the perimeter, she witnessed unusual behavior from two men she immediately recognized. Their youthful sheen hadn't worn away at all in the few years she had known them. They had very quickly developed a fondness for each other, but it wasn't the camaraderie of men at arms that they were displaying at this moment. This was something more... furtive.  
  
Her pace slowed as she watched. One man whispered into the other's ear and was answered with an expression she had seen on Shale's face only an hour earlier. Yara turned and resumed her errand as the two of them slipped into an outlying tent. No treachery was brewing between them, but their position was no less precarious for it. The woman who wanted to be a king would not be the one to judge them.  
  
The cask was nestled where the strange ripples of the beach, created when rain drained in rivulets down the sides of the bowl and into the ocean, met those faint echoes of waves that reached the cove's waters. She made her own lines in the sand with a rake of her toes as liquid amber refreshment poured into her mug, knocking back a practiced draught before refilling the mug and starting one for her lieutenant. It was sweet on her tongue and hot on her throat, a one-two punch that never failed to lift her spirits. That swell carried images of the two lovers, faces flushed with the same intoxicant that was now working its way into her own blood. As exasperating as it had been to hear it from him, Shale was right. Her position was no less precarious than theirs.  
  
If her soldiers needed to think of her as a man with tits to justify defending her crown, so be it. And if she needed to prove she was using Sansa Stark, not the other way around, so be it.  
  
******************  
  
The woman pinched a strip of meat that was just beginning to turn between her thumb and forefinger, watching pink, slobbering muzzles snap at the prize dangling just out of their reach. At length, she threw it. A peculiar little smile crept over her face at the sight of the hounds fighting over the scrap. It vanished when a gravelly voice called her back to her duties.  
  
She helped kennel the once again docile animals for the night and fled into the darkening streets of the city, no word of explanation offered or expected. The woman was poorly dressed and barely out of girlhood, and few spared her a look as she passed them. _She_ looked at no one, eyes fixed intently forward.  
  
All of Winterfell held its breath, waiting for Walda Bolton to decide their fate by delivering her baby. If she birthed a son, Lady Walda would rule as his regent until he reached the age of twelve. If it were a daughter, various uncles and cousins could start maneuvering to become the new Warden of the North. Only Myranda knew that it didn't matter. She already had multiple changeling candidates in mind, along with a doula who was susceptible to blackmail. Walda was staying right she was most useful.  
  
The towering Cyclopean eye of a lamp lighter's torch bobbed toward her from the opposite direction, pausing every so often to stretch out on its pole and ignite a street lamp. The lamp lighter performed this dance across from the castle gate as Myranda strode through it with the air of one who owned the entire pile. This was ground she had trod many times and the guards didn't even bother to acknowledge her.  
  
She ducked into an alcove with a wash basin and pitcher and mechanically scrubbed her face, neck and hands with water that felt like it should be icing over. The smell of dog would not be so easily vanquished, but her effort would be appreciated.  
  
A voice echoed stridently through the entrance to the Great Hall, door ajar. As she stopped in the doorway, it suddenly resolved into words. Walda sat behind the long table at the head of the room, hearing a petitioner about something involving the theft of several chickens. Her face betrayed ever-increasing helplessness, until she raised a hand to stem the torrent of words and turned to General Wyldewych for advice. He genially obliged.  
  
Myranda held out her arms like one welcoming a long-lost friend as the woman and her nine month old load waddled across the room with profound relief. The regent's personal guard had been doubled after her husband's assassination, but Myranda ignored them. She was an honored guest, and besides, she had recommended most of them. The two exchanged a quick hug. "You handled that well," she cooed.  
  
"It's very kind of you to say so, but I know I didn't. I don't think I could handle twelve more years of this."  
  
"Don't be silly." They began the walk to their customary sitting room. The straw-insulated packed dirt of Castle Winterfell cut the chill seeping up into their feet, but not as effectively as it muffled the sound of those feet. One could get up to quite a bit of mischief in this place, if one were so inclined. "You just need to remember that not everyone has your interests at heart. There are powerful men who will try to take advantage of your present circumstances. Show them strength."  
  
Walda's voice didn't exactly ring with confidence as she answered, "I will. Thank you."  
  
Myranda choked back an irate tone. It was nevertheless with a slight edge that she added, "A good place to start would be catching the murderess. The bounty may seem steep, but you get what you pay for." Her nails picked at the hem of the leather cuff binding her sleeve. When there was no reply, she turned. "Don't you want to avenge your husband?"  
  
A shrug. "Sure."  
  
"Then your duty to him is clear. People are already starting to talk. You can silence them."  
  
"I just... don't think..."  
  
"Think what?" She stopped.  
  
Walda leaned against the wall and sighed. "She just didn't seem like the type of girl who would even touch a bow, much less know how to shoot one."  
  
"What type of girl _would_ shoot bows?"  
  
The woman colored alarmingly. "Oh, of course I know you meant nothing by it," Myranda assured her. "If Sansa Stark's wasn't the hand that loosed the arrow, she hired the hand that did. You know it's true." She backed up slowly, signalling her companion to follow.  
  
Once comfortably ensconced before a hearth, Walda tried again. "The general says we can't afford to spread our resources too thin."  
  
"And what do you think of the general?"  
  
She shook her head, eyes on her lap.  
  
"Do you know what I would do if I were you?" She held up her hands in mea culpa. "I know it's not my place to say so, my lady, but if you'll indulge me for a moment. I would find someone I can trust. Someone I trust to think of my welfare _and_ the North's, and I would seek their counsel. Even kings have their Hands."  
  
"I'm sure you're right. I don't know what I'd have done without you, especially these past two weeks. Not too many friends here. Or anywhere, really."  
  
Her eyes brightened. Myranda gripped the arms of her chair, trying not to betray anticipation.  
  
"It should be you."  
  
"Me? I'm nobody."  
  
"Who else can do it? I trust you, Myranda, and you are _so much_ wiser than your years.  Of course, it may only be for a few days. Then-"  
  
She stopped her by placing a hand on Walda's. "I'm a kennelmaster's daughter. It would be an honor to counsel the Warden Regent for a few hours, never mind a few days. Shall I give you my first official piece of advice?"  
  
"Please."  
  
"Don't see anyone who might upset you or place undue demands on you." The hand moved to hover a respectful inch over her lady's belly. "You're carrying a very precious cargo."  
  
As well as the night had gone thus far, Walda's malleability could still hurt the cause as much as help it. So it was with special satisfaction that Myranda breezed through the door of General Wyldewych's office and announced, "This is my office now." She slid a parchment across his desk. "I think this mandate will answer any questions you may have."  
  
He looked up from the document, momentarily speechless. As she folded her arms expectantly, he managed, "Chief Advisor to the regent? _**You**_?"  
  
"I expect it to be ready for me by morning." She turned and walked away.  
  
Wyldewych darted around the desk and checked her movement with a hand on her elbow. "You think you can get away with this just because Bolton's bastard let you swan around like you belong here? I know what you are, Myranda _Snow_!"  
  
"Just think. If Ramsay had married me, I wouldn't even have had to change my name." She shook herself free and turned again.  
  
"As if he would marry one of his lowborn whores."  
  
Suddenly, she was facing him. The small but hard unit of her clenched fist smashed into his mouth. He froze, stunned by both the blow and her audacity, as she sneered back at him, fists still balled up.  
  
When he felt blood seep from the corner of his mouth, he slammed her into the wall and heard her breath pop out. She fumbled at her gauntlet, trying to slip two fingers inbetween the leather and tweed, and he wrestled her wrists up to pin them on either side of her head. "Is that a knife in there? A blade won't help you."  
  
Myranda growled low in her throat as she struggled.  
  
"The bastard is dead, and so is his father. I am a general of the most powerful army in the North. I will not allow you to whisper to that quivering, idiotic usurper we must call regent." His blood left a bitter taste on his tongue.  
  
Abruptly, her struggles ceased. Her gaze dipped to his larynx, then Wyldewych was howling as teeth tore savagely at his throat. More accurately, he was trying to howl. All that emerged was a pinched rasp.  
  
He staggered back and Myranda shoved her weapon into the crack in his armor where arm met body. She held up the long, graceful spiral of metal so he could see the dark droplet clinging to its tip. "Not a knife. A poisoned needle."  
  
She wiped the red from her lips, Wyldewych watching in horror as she licked the final traces away. "You should start feeling it soon. If I don't give you the antidote, you'll be dead within the hour. What do you think, my lord? Will you behave if I choose to rescue you?"  
  
He glared up at her and tried to speak, producing the same rasp. Grudgingly, he nodded.  
  
***  
  
Walda watched the general with creased brow as Myranda let her finger roam over the bottles and vials in the castle's apothecary. "Now where did I see it last?"  
  
The man's face betrayed desperation. He was slumped, clearly feeling the effects of the poison, and his eyes burned out from dark, sunken circles.  
  
"Ah." She tapped a vial and passed it to Wyldewych, who downed it in one gulp. "I would see the maester about that throat, if I were you. He may be able to tell you if you'll ever speak again. And I still expect my office to be ready by morning."  
  
His eyes flicked unreadably to Walda.  
  
"Well?" Myranda made a small shooing motion. "You've inconvenienced Lady Bolton enough for one night."  
  
When he was gone, Walda said, "Did you really need to do that?"  
  
"He was testing you. I put a stop to it."  
  
"And I'm grateful that you're looking out for me. I'm just not sure it's wise to poison a nobleman."  
  
"Poison? What do I know about poison? That was a mixture we use to calm the hounds."  
  
Walda stared openmouthed. "So you just gave him-"  
  
"I have no idea. It won't hurt him, at any rate. If it could hurt him, it would have had a poison label."  
  
"Aren't you clever?"  
  
"What you can do is not nearly as important as what people _think_ you can do. Ramsay taught me that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that Yara Greyjoy seems quite straight in this chapter. That's because I planned out her arc before she was revealed to be gay on the show. I could have changed it, but I like the idea of her being able to interact with the men she leads in this way. Moreover, I think the "badass lesbian" character is a bit of a cliche. Don't worry, though: a new and hopefully cool lesbian character is coming soon.


	8. Three Foot Slab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a quiet wait for Brienne to collect her spent bolts. When the warrior woman offered a replenished quiver, she stared but made no move to take it. "I was the only one of five children - seven, really- who was kept away from the harder realities. My parents even tolerated it when Arya wanted to play with weapons and horses and boys. Do you think they saw it in me, even then?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters three and four now have audio commentaries! Go to https://www.quotev.com/story/6885338/The-Price-She-Paid/3 and https://www.quotev.com/story/6885338/The-Price-She-Paid/4 to listen.

 

Sansa Stark could hear the clack of her bootheels echo off ancient cobble. She could hear the steady ebb and flow of her breath. She swore she could even hear the blood rushing through her ears, although that last part might have been fancy.  
  
She had never been the most imaginative child. Allegory and myth, she could concede, had rarely occupied her thoughts. In the blanketed hush of the dead castle, it was all too easy to feel like she was the last person alive in the world. Of the few inhabitants left, most were either asleep or manning the battlements, and the three feet of solid rock between them and the siege cut them off from the sound of the enemy as effectively as from the enemy itself. She was once again encased in walls of stone and flesh... only these were here to protect her.  
  
At least she would have the practice range to herself. No one would see the spectacle of what she was about to attempt.  
  
The long, narrow courtyard was almost oppressively overshadowed on all sides by precipitous castle walls. Its ivy-crusted surrounds and general forgotten air reminded Sansa of the mysterious secret garden her father had told her stories of when she was small. She had fantasized about this wonderful place, environs painted in every color under the sun rather than hues of brown and gray, until it had literally invaded her dreams.  
  
Her childhood walled garden had been an escape from the dull reality of day to day life in Winterfell. It had been the ultimate safe space. And it still was, only now _she_ was the secret it kept.  
  
Sansa collected a crossbow and a quiverful of bolts from the dank niche used for storing practice weapons. It was somehow even heavier than the one she had held in the Floating Cells' antechamber. She stood it on end and tried to picture how it looked loaded. After much undignified panting and grunting, the bowstring was drawn back and a bolt slotted into place. She held the crossbow straight out in two outstretched arms, lined up the wavering tip with a scrap of burlap in the center of the nearest target and...  
  
The missile whizzed past, missing the target by at least a foot.  
  
She took a few steps forward and began the laborious reloading process. By the time the quiver was depleted, her arms ached and her fingers were sore, but she had managed to hit the target a few times. The weapon slipped from her hand as she wondered why the expected sensation of triumph wasn't coming. What she felt was like an imposter. What could ever have possessed her to think she could do this? In spite of the Stark name, she was no fighter, any more than she was a real leader.  
  
"Looks like great minds think alike," came a familiar voice from behind her.  
  
Brienne displayed her own crossbow as Sansa spun to look at her. "How long have you been watching?"  
  
"Long enough to see you could use a little help."  
  
"Great minds." The left corner of Sansa's mouth curled up as she made a scoffing sound. "You're doing great things. I'm just here for the show."  
  
She looked at the forlorn quiver- all she had to show for her efforts- and headed for the rear of the range.  
  
"Allow me, my lady."  
  
It was a quiet wait for Brienne to collect her spent bolts. When the warrior woman offered a replenished quiver, she stared but made no move to take it. "I was the only one of five children - seven, really- who was kept away from the harder realities. My parents even tolerated it when Arya wanted to play with weapons and horses and boys. Do you think they saw it in me, even then?"  
  
"Saw what?"  
  
Sansa just shot her a chiding look.  
  
"I think you'll never know if you don't try." Brienne disdainfully nudged aside the crude training bow with the toe of her boot. "A good place to start would be with something lighter and more accurate." She pivoted the thin, artisanal curves of her personal crossbow and pulled back a lever, effortlessly hooking the string over the catch before inserting a bolt. "Now let's see you do it."  
  
Raw fingers gripped the lever and pulled back with too much force, not anticipating how easily the string would yield. "Oh! Why don't they all have these?"  
  
"They're more expensive," Brienne answered, moving behind Sansa as she finished loading. Cautiously, she tugged at her new pupil's hips through the linen layers appropriate to a mid-Riverlands autumn. "Move your leg back- not that much- and square up your hips."  
  
When she was satisfied with the stance, Brienne showed Sansa how to brace the stock against her shoulder, support it with her left hand and look down the iron sights.  
   
"Breath in."  
  
Sansa obeyed.  
  
"Now let it out as you gently squeeze-"  
  
The bolt flew over the target and ricocheted off the rear wall of the courtyard with a sharp crack that echoed through the narrow stone enclosure, magnified into a chorus of failure.  
  
The next fared slightly better, clipping the edge of the target and spinning crazily away. "Try imagining it's someone you want to shoot," suggested Brienne.  
  
Instantly, she flashed back to her fantasy of standing on that dais, watching Joffrey squirm between her sights. The staggered targets behind him could become indifferent spectators draped in brocade and satin. She could almost see it, Joffrey's face screwing up tight as he wailed and pleaded. Stillness settled in behind her breastbone and her index finger teased the trigger...  
  
She missed.  
  
Sansa threw the bow down hard enough to send a plume of fine dust circling her feet. "I'm hopeless!"  
"DON'T-" Brienne caught herself, sucking in a whistling breath through her nose. "Please do try not to damage it. I've had it for a long time."  
  
Sansa sheepishly mumbled, "I'm sorry."  
  
She picked it up and dusted it off against her sleeve, as Brienne continued,"You're already improving faster than Pod did when I first met him. It just takes practice, like anything." A sudden inspiration struck her. "Like sewing. You didn't stitch a perfect hem on your first try, did you?"  
  
"No, Mother," came the reply, but it was a gentle poke.  
  
Brienne proffered the quiver so she could withdraw another bolt. "I want to thank you for the trust you've placed in me." Sansa nodded absently, focused on reloading. "But I'm not entirely sure why I have it. You didn't even trust your own uncle enough to tell him everything."  
  
"Don't have a choice, really. People aren't exactly lining up to keep my head sitting on my shoulders." A sly grin. "Besides, you're a woman. At least I know you're not planning to rape me."  
  
"A bit of a backhanded compliment, that."  
  
Sansa's smile briefly reappeared as her bolt lodged in an outer ring of the target. Before the vibrating blur at its visible end could reform into feathers, she was reaching for another. "Believe it or not, I used to think most people had only good intentions. Distrust came _after_ betrayal, and sometimes not even then. I'm a slow learner. It's true. But I learned that trust is a privilege. You've earned it. Many times."  
  
Another thud of wood against much-abused straw. "Of course, so did Roose Bolton." She almost seemed to be talking to herself now. "He served my family faithfully for almost half a century."  
  
"Surely you're not comparing me to... to _that man_?"  
  
"No. I met him. I don't think you're like him at all."  
  
"It means a lot to hear you say that."  
  
Sansa turned slightly, studying her in a curious manner, then fired the remaining few bolts in silence. Some hit, some did not. She set out to retrieve them with the stiff leather of the quiver trailing along in the wake left by her hem.  
  
"Allow-" Brienne began.  
  
"Not this time. I have to learn these things."  
  
Her fingers drifted over the coarse braid of straw bounding the target, then flowed down to rest on a smooth shaft. Brienne busied herself checking the springs and sights on her bow.  
  
"Who gave it to you?"  
  
Brienne looked up to see the girl wiggling the bolt free, back turned. "What?"  
  
"The bow. It's obviously not just a bow to you."  
  
She opened her mouth, then clamped it shut before deciding on candor. "Renly Baratheon. The one I was sworn to before your mother. He gave it to me the day he appointed me to his Kingsguard."  
  
"You were close?"  
  
"Not really. But he was always kind to me. And it was a great honor, especially for a woman." She traced one of the lines that branched up into an abstracted carving of stag antlers, spreading across the bow's crosspiece. "Actually, it was his greatest kindness. I earned my place on his Kingsguard, that's true. But _he_ was the only one who cared."  
  
Sansa knelt gingerly and pinched the length of a bolt between thumb and forefinger, mumbling, "Sounds close." It doesn't sound like she's talking to Brienne, who can barely make out the words.  
  
"It's a rare and precious thing to serve someone who sees you as a charge, not a subject. Renly was that kind of person. So was your mother."  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"That remains to be seen, my lady. But I've been happy serving you."  
  
That got an ironic smirk. "You have to say that, don't you? I'm your liege lady."  
  
"And my queen."  
  
"What a beggar queen that makes me. Everything I have belongs to someone else."  
  
"But you will be. Queen in the North."  
  
"I don't want to be queen of any place. I just want to go home."  
  
"I fear you won't be able to have one without the other."  
  
"Lord Baelish used to say things like that. I didn't believe him, of course. I wasn't _that_ blind."  
  
"Then why did you go with him instead of with me?"  
   
Sansa approached slowly, pondering. "I thought he loved me." She took the crossbow. "I guess that's what happens when you're raised by sentimental fools."  
  
Brienne was deeply, exquisitely scandalized. "Lady Sansa! Your family were fine people! A noble house."  
  
"A dead house."  
  
"They died fighting for what was right."  
  
"Why does everyone say that like it makes anything better? Nothing is worth dying for, _nothing_. There are only things worth killing for."  
  
It was a shock to look down and realize that the bow was already loaded. She hadn't spared it a glance and still her hands were already going through the motions faster.  After her protector guided her hips, her shoulders, her elbows into compliance, she released a long, pent-up breath and watched her bolt nick the bullseye.  
  
***************  
  
"I have good news. Tommen let me see him today. It was only for     a few minutes, but I think he finds focusing on Myrcella's assassins a welcome distraction from the Faith Militant."  
  
Jaime Lannister gestured for his sister to pour him a drink too. She decanted a second serving. "Has Margaery's pardon helped?" he asked.  
  
Cersei passed his goblet. "It eased his mind. More than when his _mother_ was released. We'd be better off if she and whatever is brewing behind that false innocence were still in the dungeon, though. Our sons have always needed protection from scheming women."  
  
"Margaery Tyrell is not who we should be worried about. The High Sparrow is."  
  
"Are you sure? The High Sparrow couldn't exercise such complete control over his king without her help." She draped herself over a chair in the corner of the room, bare foot dangling over an armrest, seeming to Jaime maddeningly unconcerned. "It may not matter in the end. I think I'm starting to reach him. A boy Tommen's age needs his mother."  
  
"Well, you're not reaching him fast enough! Our son just ordered me to go deal with the Blackfish, and that man was-" His golden hand slashed the air. "-hovering by his side as if he were already on the Iron Throne."  
  
She considered this news for a moment. "Then that is what you'll do."  
  
"It could take monthes, maybe years."  
  
"You'll find a way. You always do."  
  
"He has our boy! He stole our little boy! He's torn our family apart. How do lions treat people who tear us apart?"  
  
"We treat them without mercy, and we will. But they number in the thousands now. If you attack the Sparrows, neither of us will live through the night, and if we die, it will all have been for nothing. Do you understand, Jaime?"  
  
He grunted as his goblet slammed down onto a tabletop, aromatic red liquid sloshing over the rim. Cersei watched intently from behind her own rim. "Maybe we should tell Tommen the Tyrells have threatened to withdraw support," he suggested.  
  
"It would only make him more determined to make an example of the Riverlands. No one can-"  
  
A light rap sounded at the door. She held up a hand to curb her brother and called out, "Who is it?"  
  
"A raven for you, your grace."  
  
"Come in."  
  
The former queen seemed to enjoy making him cross the room to deliver the parcel into her hand, as Jaime impatiently drained half of his wine. One eyebrow arched at the sight of a Riverrun seal holding the bundle together.  
  
The scribe added, "I saw to it that its arrival would stay between us."  
  
"Your loyalty is commendable."  
  
"It's a small favor after what you did for my mother, your grace." He bowed, then left her to crack the wax barrier and unfold the oilcloth in privacy. Two parchments fell out, one wrinkled and stained, the other crisp.  
  
When Jaime's hope could no longer be contained, he blurted, "Has the Blackfish surrendered?"  
  
"No such luck, I'm afraid. But at least you won't have to deal with old Frey while you're there."  
  
"Why is that?"  
  
"Because he betrayed us." She lifted the wrinkled parchment slightly. "He offered the Blackfish not just a truce, but an alliance."  
  
"I imagine that didn't go over well."  
  
"No. This says agents of the Riverlands actually managed to remove Edmure Tully from the Floating Cells. Something certainly emboldened someone." The final sentence was suffused with sarcasm.  
  
"I would have told Father not to trust Walder Frey, if he had bothered to ask. But if we can't count on-"  
  
"I'll handle him."  
  
"How?"  
  
"Even now, I'm not as helpless as you seem to think." A cool breeze rippled the drapes and she extended her leg to catch it, toes arching back appreciatively. "I'll handle him. You handle the Blackfish."  
  
He scoffed. "I don't see how you can be so calm about all this. You'll stand trial soon and you're asking me to leave you alone? I need to be here for you."  
  
"It will be a trial by combat. I have the Mountain."  
  
Jaime had no answer to that, much as he struggled to find one. He had seen enough of... whatever the fuck it was Qyburn had turned their family champion into. A trial by combat against it was better than an official pardon from their son.    
  
Cersei continued, "Once the Faith Militant have no more claim on me, I'll be free to go where I need to go, do what I need to do. Where I need you is at the head of our army, where Father knew you belonged." She rose and stalked slowly toward him. "Show our men where their loyalties belong, show them what Lannisters are. Take back their confidence in our name. And take that stupid little castle back because it's ours and because you _can_."  
  
Her arms wrapped around his shoulders and his responded by circling her waist. "They have no idea how strong they've made us, all the biting and clawing vermin. They have no idea what we're capable of."  
  
"The pride and the prey," he murmured. For the first time in weeks, he felt confident enough to lean in. She didn't move away. "Fuck everyone who isn't us."  
   
The warmth of her breath puffed into his ear canal, stuttering with the quaver that crept into her voice. "Yes. Believe me, I am anything but calm about all of this. But I promise that when you come back, we will bring a reckoning to everyone, _everyone_ , who's taken our children, our parents, our birthright."  
  
Jaime felt the queasy thrill he always did as his sister's lips touched his. After several seconds, Cersei pulled away and returned to her chair. "You'd best get to bed early. You need your strength."  
  
"Why did they send it to you?"  
  
"Send what?"  
  
"Riverrun sent the letter to you. Not the Hand. Not the King."  
  
"They want to tear us apart, of course, even as they're depriving us of allies. It won't work, though, will it?" She lifted her goblet to him in an intimation of a toast. "You’re going to make the walls they hide behind the slab on their tomb."  
  



End file.
